


Durin's Bane

by Valandhir



Series: The Raven's Blade [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:29:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 134,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valandhir/pseuds/Valandhir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "A distant Light". An old and powerful curse still holds sway over Durin's House. How far does one Captain go to save a friend, to save his King? How much can one man bear and will he risk fate itself to do it? Rated M for violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What has been sealed

 

** **

**Author’s  Note **

 

This is the sequel to “A distant Light” and I would strongly recommend reading it before, because otherwise you will be confused how Boromir is still alive or how Kili ended up in Moria, along with some other events that won’t be explained here again.

 

For all those who shared the journey of “A distant Light” with me: welcome back! I will admit that this is the craziest plot bunny I ever tried my hand on, but some friends encouraged me to go for it.

 

A short note on parings: I do not know of any as of yet should that change at some point throughout the story, I will put an appropriate note into the story description.

 

Comments, hints, wishes and speculations are always welcomed!

 

I want to thank Harrylee94 who threw this plot bunny at me and stroked it gently until it grew into the pink-monster bunny. Thank you my friend!

 

****

** Prologue: What has been sealed **

****

Last day of September, Year 21 of the Fourth Age

 

The sight of the Eastern Gate always woke mixed feelings in Boromir, when seeing it from afar. More than two decades ago he had stumbled from that dark hole in the rocks, bleeding, exhausted and just escaped from the Orcs, Gandalf and the Balrog fallen in the shadow behind them. Back then the darkness had amassed behind them and an uncertain road lay ahead, before night the hills had been swarming with orcs and the look behind had only revealed a stark landscape of rock and river in the cold light of late winter.

 

Now the sight was quite different, the warm light of the late summer sun bathed the road that led up the dimril dale and the once broken gate of Moria was long replaced with a proper stone gate again. Invisible when closed the lines on the door reflected only the setting and rising sun, so the door shone in fiery lines at dawn and dusk. Boromir always felt a sense of pride when he saw Dimril Dale now; the Eastern gate had been one of the last parts of Moria they had conquered. Seven years of merciless underground war against the Orcs and Goblins, before they had conquered the last part of Moria, before there was no nook or cranny where an Orc hid. It had been a long hard war in the darkness under the mountains and one that had Warmaster Dwalin swear more often than not that it would make him an old dwarf. At least that’s what he had said whenever it came to a certain Dwarf Prince and his tendency to go where the fighting was worst.

 

With none of them as familiar with the map and secrets of Dwarrowdelf it had only been natural that Kili often led the most daring raids, guiding their troops through paths and places that were nearly forgotten even to dwarven memory. “Someone has to look out for him,” Dwalin had grumbled after the battle of the Hall of White Fire. “and I am putting you in charge of that. You are one of the few that can keep up with him. Assemble whatever fighters you think are up to it.”

 

That task had made sure he had his hands full for the next few years, because Kili would certainly listen to Boromir’s advice and tactical thoughts but between them their plans got rather more daring than not. Boromir had followed Dwalin’s orders and assembled the best, toughest dwarves for the task. Back in that first winter underground he had not believed that from the ranks of this hard, wild troop he had hammered into shape, the Raven’s Guard would  one day rise. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, there were only fifty of them present, riding in formation, watchful eyes on the grounds left and right, ready to jump into action the moment an Orc dared to show his nose. Boromir smiled, his gaze going back ahead. Nine years after entering Dwarrowdelf the city had been nothing like the dark place Boromir had seen during the War of the Ring, with the dwarven population of old Arnor and Ered Luin flooding back to their ancestral home, joined by quite a number from other parts, light and life had returned to their city and Dwarrowdelf shone again in the light of thousand lamps.

 

On Durin’s day, marking the turn of the tenth year since entering Moria the new Lord of Moria had been crowned, and Boromir had found himself with his new task, as the Captain of the Ravens, the Royal Guard, and still the warriors to follow Kili into every danger he walked in on, and those were numerous still.

 

“You always look pensive when we come up here,” A familiar deep voice interrupted his thoughts. Turning his head Boromir saw Kili had guided his horse beside his own. Like so often when travelling the dwarven King wore a heavy scale mail armor, but no helmet, allowing his dark mane to fall free over his shoulders. His dark eyes met Boromir’s gaze and it was easy to see that he had read his friend’s mood.

 

“It always reminds me of the day we came out there, running from the Orcs and the Balrog,” Boromir replied, in the long years they had spent fighting side by side their bond had grown in strength considerably, but it had also settled comfortably, even as they had an affinity beyond sensing pain or wounds. “It sometimes seems so far away, in another lifetime, but then… I just need to ride up this hill and feel like it was only yesterday.”

 

“I remember it well,” Kili’s eyes traced the hillside that sheltered Dimril Dale and Mirrormere. “let us hurry, we should be home before dark falls, otherwise Dwalin will send one or two banners in our direction. He knows when we left Meduseld.”

 

“And he will grumble again that if Éomer King has a problem he should go pester King Elessar.” Their horses extended trot as they entered the dale, Boromir saw the handsignal of the lookout that everything was clear. Even ten years after their victory it was a necessary to stay watchful; the Goblins still had footholds in other parts of the mountains.

 

“Only that Elessar would not be able to help him,” Kili laughed. “I was lucky you could talk some sense into Shantar. They were close to open war again. He and Éomer aggravate each other so much they should declare their undying love right away.”

 

Boromir had heard that joke before, it was not the first tangle Éomer King and the High Lord Commander of Rhûn had gotten into. Those two were prone to lock horns and had been on the brink of war three times already. “Shantar will listen to what I say because I defeated his father in single combat, that makes me his elder in a way and gained me some respect. They will always prefer a good enemy to a dishonest friend, it’s their way… they have lived under the shadow for far too long.” He replied, well recalling Shakurán and their last fight.

 

The road led them past Mirrormere, the lake shone blue under the cool evening sky, it was not the bright azure of summer’s heat nor the deep steely colour the lake would take in winter, right now the waters reflected a serene sad midnight blue, like a shining jewel. The huge stone statue on the other side was mirrored in the lake as a long shadow. The mighty stone warrior was the memorial for the battle of Azanulbizar, back then the dwarves had been forced to burn their dead and scatter the ashes on the lake, because there had been no chance to build stone cairns for their fallen. Now this statue of a warrior with his axe commemorated all those who had no grave. And while the lake still shone in the deep blue the echo of the darkening waters were clearly visible. Autumn was upon them. “At least we are back well enough before Durin’s day.” Kili’s eyes had also been on the statue, but now his focus was back on the road.

 

Inwardly Boromir agreed; Durin’s day would be met with a grand celebration, like always. It had been on Durin’s day eleven years ago that Kili had been crowned with the Raven’s Crown and formally become Durin VII Ravenswing. The coronation had been something the dwarves had shared with no one, no strangers had been invited and no dignitaries of any sort either. Boromir had been the only non-dwarf present, and he knew he was not regarded as such any more. Since he had sworn to Kili, his branch of the House of Húrin had been written down in the chronicles of Durin’s folk as theirs. Still, it had touched him to witness this.

 

Dwarven tradition demanded that the Prince would spend the night in vigil at his father’s grave, something more or less impossible as Kili’s father Dari was among the many dead whose ashes rested in Mirrormere. And the man whom he was heir to: Thorin, King under the Mountain, was buried a thousand leagues to north under the pines near Erebor. In the end he had chosen to go to the grave of the one who had preceded him in the title, if not in blood. Of the Raven’s Guard Boromir had been the only one to be present for Kili’s long vigil at Balin’s grave. The Captain had never met the old dwarf, but heard a lot about him from Kili, Dwalin, Bofur and some others, it was easy to see how much traces the kind grand old dwarf had left in the lives of his people.

 

The next morning under the magnificent dome of Dwarrowdelf, in the light of a thousand lamps, Kili had been crowned, the ceremony had taken place there and not in the palace, before all his people. To his own surprise Boromir had been deeply touched when he watched Dwalin place the Raven’s crown on the kneeling Prince’s brow.

Ever since Durin’s day had been a huge feast in all the city and one that the Dwarves still did not share, no guests or dignitaries, thank you very much. Startled Boromir looked to Kili, when he felt a jab of discomfort and dread from him, but before he could ask a Raven fluttered down from the heights and landed on Kili’s hand, cawing softly.

 

The dwarven King sighed. “Anarion send him, some dwarven envoys are at the eastern gate and make fuss. We will not be able to avoid them.” He straightened up, to his full height as he made his white horse go in a dignified trot instead of their fast pace.

 

Boromir had seen this before, within one breath’s space he had gone from being Kili to Durin VII, the change was startling for those who did not know him. Wordlessly the Captain of the Ravens took his dark helmet from the side of the saddle; it would not hide his face, but obscure it. He gestured the Raven guard to fan out into formal formation as they approached the Eastern gate.

 

The Envoys proved to be from Erebor, and they were quite angry at not having been let into the city. There was a semblance of peace between the two dwarven Kingdoms, but it was a cool to cold relationship. Boromir knew that very well. When Kili had heard of Dain’s brave death in the second battle of Dale, he had send appropriate words to his successor, unfortunately Dain’s son had not taken that well, especially with a number of his young people already having wandered off to join the Moria conquest. That Dain’s son had been crowned Thorin III Stonehelm had not helped things at all. It had taken Boromir a year and some patient lessons from Bofur and Brea to understand the rifts between the seven dwarf tribes and why the Firebeards and Durin’s folk were not on best terms over things that went back as far as the founding of Belegost. And even with all attempts to mend the rift, it had never quite healed; in fact it had broadened with deepened with the political situation. Erebor and the Aglarond dwarves had close ties to Gondor and the elves in Lothlorien. The Moria dwarves on the other hand had allowed the hill people to settle in Eregion and were on excellent terms with Lord Elrohir of Rivendell, who had succeeded his father after Elrond debarked for the undying lands. The dignitaries had been sent at a bad time, and were of course not happy that they would not be allowed into Dwarrowdelf. Boromir had half expected Kili to make an exception, for diplomacies’ sake, but the dwarven king did not give in, and things came close to the guard being forced to remove some very angry firebeards.

 

The great gate closed behind them and they approached the bridges – a magnificent double bridge now spanned the chasm that still was one of the greatest natural defenses of the city. Mithrandir Span, as the bridge was named was cut form white stone, with a statue of the wizard, one Gandalf the Grey and one Gandalf the White, on either side. Even with all the conflicts they had had with the old wizard, the dwarves honored the man who had slain Durin’s Bane.

 

Passing Mithrandir Span and the Hall of the Waking Fire always felt like homecoming to Boromir, inside these walls they were save and with no strangers in the city, danger for the King’s life was practically nonexistent. While Kili never evaded the Raven’s Guard, he disliked being shadowed every step he took inside his own halls. So Boromir dismissed most of the troops, knowing his King well enough to just keep himself, Bladvila and Aligern close at hand as they walked through the grand halls towards the heart of city. “Have your men get some rest,” the King spoke up when they reached the huge dome of Dwarrowdelf, with the Palace visible across the grand plaza. “and get some rest too, this ride was tiring for all of us.”

 

Boromir bowed slightly, he’d have a replacement details sent to the palace, just in case. He felt a light touch on his arm, and knew he was found out. “I need a few hours alone,” Within a breath’s space again Durin VII had given way to Kili, or maybe Boromir was used to see it, when Kili allowed for others to look beneath the role of the King. “I will be down in the crypt. If you feel restless, find Dwalin, he will have refreshing news on the Lord of Mt. Gundalbad, and he’ll enjoy strategizing over a goblet of wine.” The last was said in a warm, affectionate voice, Kili knew them both well.

 

**                                   **                            **

 

The ancient crypts were a silent part of Moria, here the ancient kings, their followers, the old houses, were laid to rest in the days of old. With the city retaken, the crypts had been expanded to house those who fell during the conquest, but the ancient crypts had been left untouched as a sign of respect.  Atop the stairs of remembrance Kili met Brea, she had known he’d come and wordlessly handed him the flask. “It’s all brewed as you said, stronger this time.” She said calm and directly. In spite of being their King, Kili had never lost the connection to his people, he hated constant formalities.

 

“Thank you, Brea,” he said; glad she had made it in time. He also noticed her worried glance. “What is it, Brea?” he asked.

 

“Elf-root, dreambane, twilight-asp and moontears,” Brea shook her head, her black beard emphasizing the movement. “I know what it does and it would send a Mumak into a prophesizing trance, proclaiming itself King of Harad, Why, Kili? Why do this every year?”

 

Kili could see she was upset, he had chosen her for this task, because she would keep her silence. Brea would never break trust. “Because he already feels it every time I take an arrow, or get injured in battle, not to mention that damned bite from the fell beast… he lives with these things, and I don’t know sometimes how he manages to do it. There are things I don’t want to force him to share, and your draught will at least drown the bond for a few hours.”

 

“You know you are lucky he hasn’t noticed yet,” Break pointed out. “even if you managed to send him to Dwalin for some wine… one day he could notice. He’s a sharp one, clever.”

 

“I know; he’s one of the best. You let me deal with that, Brea.” Kili replied and continued down into the crypts. In the ancient grave of Durin II he flipped of his travelling cloak and the scale armor, leaving only the leather tunic he wore beneath before continuing on, into the deep chamber below. He emptied the draught while he walked, knowing the effects would silence the bond, even if they could not block out the sensations, the pain that was to come. Walking into the dark chamber, Kili fought an urge of panic, forcing himself to walk straight into the circular room. Wings fluttered in the dark, he knew it was coming.

 

                                               **                                            **                                            **

 

Kili had been right about Dwalin being happy to see Boromir return; the old warrior greeted him heartily and insisted on hearing about their journey first. They were seated in Dwalin’s home _Vinhall_ in Dwarrowdelf and Boromir told him of Rohan and their latest quarrel with the east. “He should have asked for Shantar’s hand, they quarrel like an old couple,” Dwalin grinned, as he refilled their goblets.

 

“Queen Lothiriel would have a word to say about that,” Boromir pointed out, bemused. “and knowing her noble house as I do, I’d say Éomer should live in mortal fear of ever straying from her.”

 

“If you say so,” Dwalin grinned. “Now, on to less tasteful Kings, His Ugliness up at Mt. Gundalbad has been behaving strange of late, we had a few raiding parties as war as the Northern pass.”

 

“Raiding parties or just chased off troops? King Elrohir might have taken to shake up the place earlier than usual.” Boromir knew well that the Elven Warrior-King had lost his mother to these Orcs and would always raid some of their prominent bastions around the day of her departure. Which send Orcs running all the way to Narn Curunir.

 

“Raiding parties, no troops running scared,” Dwalin confirmed. “King Elrohir will not go Orc hunting this autumn. His sister is said to be due for her child and he and his brother are bound to be in Annúminas, with Prince Elladan being a healer like his father and all…”

 

“Is it a rumor again or will Gondor finally see an heir?” Boromir asked, sipping on the red wine, Dwalin liked the strong stuff and the Captain of the Ravens had long learned to never enter a drinking contest with his friend.

 

“Anarion says it’s the real thing this time and he has more contacts among the Northern Dúnedain than they might like. I always knew Rangers were spies in disguise.”

 

“Anarion simply listens to people and he has a fine ear for the truth,” Boromir said. “and few people notice his blindness if he is careful and keeps Windwolf close.” The young Ranger had followed Boromir on his quest, finding a home among the dwarves. After living in Dwarrowdelf for twenty years he knew the city so well, he moved there as easily as if he had never been blinded. After the Nazgul Horse had been killed during a skirmish in Dimril Dale, he had trained a Northern wolf to be his guide and with him he even dared the wildnerness and roads of Eriador, often send by Dwalin when the Warmaster needed to confirm rumors in Arnor.

 

“Careful, your friend never knew was careful was,” Dwalin shook his head. “but he’s good at what he does. If your brother trained all his Rangers so well, they should be Gondor’s finest weapon.”

 

Boromir wanted to say something about that when he felt a surge of pain erupt in his back and chest, like fiery claws raking over him. He gasped, nearly dropping the goblet, pain made his head spin; he felt a sense of dread and iron determination amongst another drowning wave of pain.

 

“Boromir! Damn, you are doing that thing again,” Dwalin had grabbed his shoulders, the old dwarf knowing what was happening. “Which is it?”

 

“Kili!” Boromir forced the pain to the back of his mind. He knew it had to be Kili, while the bond to Faramir was there too; it had never grown so deep and intense, due to their separation. He got to his feet. “He said he wanted to visit the crypts.”

 

Both warriors left _Vinhall_ , luckily the hall was located right at the heart of Dwarrowdelf, calling the Raven’s Guard and other warriors was a matter of moments. “Bladvila, send your men to the Stairs of Silence and the Stairs of the Forgotten, cut the city of the dead off,” Boromir told his men. “Aligern, you are with Dwalin and I.” He knew Dwalin would have the entire deep in lockdown with patrols on every corner before long. Orc Alarm, it had to be.

 

                                               **                                            **                                            **

 

They hastened down the stairs of Remembrance, the only way into the crypts they had left open. Dwalin and Boromir advanced quickly, taking the risk of an ambush over the waste of time. When they came into the crypt of Durin II Boromir stopped, pointing on the cairn. Kili’s cloak and armor rested there clearly left behind. “What is going on here, Dwalin?” he asked, wondering why Kili would leave both behind like this.

 

That moment a scream, a pained, bloodcurdling scream echoed through the tomb. Without waiting Boromir hastened on, down the stairs that led to an ancient area of the city of the dead, the Hall of Introspection. In the light of his raised torch he saw a thing – a winged shadow release Kili from its grip, dropping him on the floor, before vanishing in the darkness. It was the Captain’s first reflex to chase after the thing but not with Kili on the ground, his tunic torn and his body bleeding. Boromir knelt down beside him. “Aligern, we need a healer down here!” He barked, sending the dwarf off, Kili would not mind Dwalin’s presence but no one else should see him in this shape.

 

“Don’t…” Kili coughed, his voice hoarse. “don’t go after it… let it go. It got what it came for…”

 

“I’ll teach him to want anything,” Dwalin grumbled, taking off his cloak to rest Kili’s battered body on it. “we’ll catch it, lad, don’t worry.”

 

“No,” Kili had a hard time to force the words out. “let it go. It’s gone… I won’t let the curse hurt my people again. Durin’s Bane… it’ll not harm you again.” He passed out with that, pain and injury taking its toll.

 

                               **                                                           **                                                           **

 

“I can’t believe it!” Dwalin paced back and forth in the main guard room of the palace. “Durin’s Bane has been dead for twenty years and whatever did that, it was no Balrog.”

 

Boromir had to agree on both points; the very nature of the injury precluded the Balrog. He had seen the beast, and was certain it was not the same thing he had shortly spotted in the crypts. “He said he’d not this curse harm his people again,” he mused. “could it be something else? Some ancient curse?”

 

Thoughtfully Dwalin scratched his bald head. “Maybe. Where’s Balin when you need him? He knew such things, something about Moria worried him, he was nearly glad when Kili did not come with us right away the first time. When he called for him… he said something to me about being safe.” The warmaster’s fist made a hard impact on the table.

 

“Is there someone else who could know more?” Boromir asked. “One of the chroniclers maybe?”

 

“Na, don’t bother.” Dwalin waved it off. “Durin’s House, they always had their secrets, things only they knew. Balin knew a lot, because he was in high in the trust of Thror and Thorin. I had thought the old knowledge lost when Thorin died, but when Kili knew Moria like he did I knew it had been passed on after all. But what other secrets may still be buried there? He won’t tell us, he went to a great length to hide it in the first place.”

 

“True,” Boromir leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. “the year before, he said he got injured during an Orc attack on the last day of September, and another year before he went to Mirrormere and supposedly had that run in with  a mountain bear…”

 

“Every year?” Dwalin asked. “he has been going through this every year since we returned?” Horror was clearly written on the old warrior’s face. “Why? Why would he consign himself to such suffering?”

 

“To protect his people,” Boromir looked at his friend. “if I know one thing about our King it is that he will do whatever it takes to protect his people and to the Gate of Night with the scars. But without knowing more we can’t help him.”

 

“Aye, and no one in this city will know a lick more than us.” Dwalin grumbled, and then he stopped. “and you look like you have an idea.”

 

“Not much of one.” Boromir admitted. “I’d simply do what I always do when I can’t make head and tails of some ancient lore. Ask the one scholar who had the free run of all the libraries of Gondor since he was a boy.”

 

“Your brother.” Dwalin’s eyes sparkled. “Go, Boromir.” He said. “Ride to Annúminas, I’ll stay here and protect Kili. We need answers.”

 


	2. Threads woven in Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boromir begins his search for answers

** Chapter 1: Threads woven of shadow **

****

The cold had come very early this year, during the last golden days of late summer it had hardly seemed possible that it might become winter at all. But the last night had changed this; a cold wind had begun blowing harshly from the misty mountains, chasing an endless stream of heavy clouds west.  Even as it was not snowing already everything looked changed. Gone was the sun, the radiant leaves and the slowly failing warmth, remnant of a long summer, the skies were grey, dim the light and it was getting colder.

  
The rider had seen all the changes high in the skies, for he had ridden all night and most of the day before. Not that he cared much, neither the cold weather nor the long ride meant much to him. He was used to rather harsh conditions. When he reached the long winding road that led up to the gates of the Northern Capital of Annúminas he lightly clapped his horse’s neck, encouraging the tired animal to a last leg of haste.

 

Trenaron had been standing guard at the gates for many a time. He had seen all kinds of messengers and strangers coming up the slopes of the mountain and rarely been worried. But that cold autumn morning was different. Not for the weather, certainly not that. Winter was early this year but this happened from time to time. Some fog had risen from the lake early and lifted slowly. The wind had decided to cease exactly the moment when it might have been of some use. So the heavy mists hung in the air and the barren trees down the lower slopes looked right like pale ghosts, stretching their arms towards the fortress. But Trenaron knew them to be just trees.

 

What had startled him was the rider who emerged silently from the morning mists like a spectre. The hoofs of the horse were hardly to be heard; it just stepped out of a particularly huge bank of fog. It was so near to the gates that Trenaron nearly jumped. But it was the rider that gave him the creeps. If the horse was tall, then it fitted its rider perfectly. He was a tall man, with long bronze hair falling to his shoulders; his eyes were of an intense green and were right now scanning Trenaron thoroughly. On top of all this, there was no way to tell the age of the rider. He seemed to be in his early fourties, as far as Trenaron would guess by his face and appearance, but then there were those knowing eyes, that spoke of experience beyond his years. The guard had seen many Numenórans with that expression, that those old eyes that went quite beyond the lifespan of lesser men, but there was something different here; a strange and ageless quality to the man that he could not place at all, although it startled him deeply.

 

Pulling it together Trenaron studied the man to asses where he might be from and what he would want. The armor drew his attention at once, chainmail black as night itself under a silver harness engraved with the Raven and the Star. The guardsman blinked, it could not be. The Raven and Star where the coat of arms of Moria, and this rider was a man not a dwarf; again his eyes fell on the magnificent armor, he had no doubt it was of dwarven make. Mithril-steel, and there was only one place in the world that could make such things, and they certainly were not trading. The horse had stopped right in front of him and realized he had been staring. “Who are you and what brings you to the gates of Annúminas, Stanger?” he asked quickly.

 

The rider arched an eyebrow at him. “I am Boromir, Captain of the Ravens, and I am here to see the Steward Faramir, Prince of Ithilien.”

 

Trenaron looked at the man disbelievingly, but stepped aside to let him pass. He just had enough presence of mind to send a runner up to the citadel. Let the Captain of the Royal Guard sort out if this rider was who he claimed to be.

 

                                               **                                            **                                            **

 

Boromir rode through the streets of Annúminas, slightly amused at the guard’s fluster, he had not expected to be recognized, it had been too long that he had been among men. The one time he had been here, it had been as Captain of the Ravens, when Durin VII had attended the ceremonies of the re-founded city. He was not sure that it was wise to move the capital north like this, if Gondor’s nobility was what they always had been they needed the constant presence of a King and a firm hand as well. He pushed the thought aside, those were neither his concerns nor worries, ahead he could already see the Citadel gate.  There was no doubt the city guard had send a runner ahead, because the posted citadel guards were just approached by another man, no doubt their Captain wanting to know why he had been called. The man turned when Boromir’s horse approached and the Captain of the Ravens was surprised to see a face familiar, if changed.

 

“Thoroniâr,” he greeted the man who had served with him during the long war against the shadow. It was well to hide his surprise. Thoroniâr had changed, he still was the tall, powerful warrior but his once black hair was now thickly streaked with iron grey, and the passing years had etched deeper lines on his face. Nevertheless his grim expression made way for a smile when he recognized the rider.

 

“Lord Boromir,” he approached the new arrival. “Captain, I should say,” he added, reminding himself of Boromir’s rank as the Captain of the Ravens. “It is a glad day that brings you to the capital. “I take it you are here with messages from Durin VII? I will have you announced to….”

 

Boromir interrupted the words with a gesture. “I am here to see my brother, Thoroniâr, not with official messages. But you expecting me to be a messenger means… Gondor finally has an heir?” He had dismounted, leading his horse as they passed the bridge and into the ward.

 

“Three weeks ago,” Thoroniâr confirmed. “you should have seen the celebrations in the streets when the birth of Prince Eldarion was announced. Forgive me, I thought your King would have send you with his words… given your connection to this land.”

 

“I don’t think any announcement has reached Dwarrowdelf so far, either no messenger was sent or he never arrived. Have you had problems down the Tharbad road of late?”

 

Suddenly both men laughed, it had been twenty years since they had last talked but they would fall into the same pace the moment they were reunited. “Not that I know of,” Thoroniâr said. “but I will find out anyway. Your horse will be well taken care of… and your brother will be happy to see you here. I will send someone to announce your arrival properly.”

 

                                                               **                            **                            **

 

Faramir had been in the Tower of Knowledge, the great library at the citadel, when the guard had announced the arrival of his brother. A feeling of his brother’s approach had been there during the last days, even as he made no habit of focusing on the bond too much. He had lived a good, whole life, married for the last two decades with a wonderful son and daughter growing up in his household and a wife who could still best him at swordplay and gleefully did so. The bond meant the reassuring knowledge that his brother was alive and alright, but while he had missed him certainly, he had never delved deeper into the connection forged between them during the ring war. Still, the announcement had left him excited; it had been very long that they had seen each other.

 

When Boromir strode into the room, Faramir could only smile. His brother had not changed at all, still the warrior, still the same powerful man and still impatient with doorwardens and other “useless” servants. Contrary to everyone else present, the guards excluded, he wore heavy armor. Faramir had no doubt that the magnificent armor was of dwarven make, Moria had the best armorers and bladesmiths there were these days. With the long blue cloak his brother truly looked like one would expect from a Captain of the Ravens. The brothers embraced, their greeting knew no years passed. “Boromir, it is good to see you. I take it you were sent with messages?”

 

“No, I was not send to congratulate Aragorn on finally having an heir,” Boromir said. “the news had not yet reached Dwarrowdelf when I rode north. But I am sure there will be a suitable envoy here soon enough to bring the greetings and good wishes appropriate the occasion.”

 

“I am sure there will be and I am all the more glad you came to see us finally. Elboron has been asking about you ever since you sent him that sword for his eleventh naming day.” Faramir said, as the brothers sat down near one of the oriel windows of the tower. “I will freely admit I was not so happy with that, but Éowyn was delighted. We often have wished you’d come here.” Boromir had not been there when Faramir had married Éowyn, thought a letter of him had arrived months later. The War of the Return had been in its second year at the time and Faramir knew his brother would have been on the forefront of the fighting. For years sparse letters had been all that had been all outside of the bond that had told him that Boromir was still alive.

 

“He is the Steward’s Eldest son, he should become a warrior,” Boromir replied to Faramir’s soft critique in his choice of a gift for his nephew. “and I am sorry I was not there, Fari… there were things I would have wanted to share with you too. The day the great doors of Dwarrowdelf were opened, the coronation… I wish you could have seen it, or that I had at least the time to tell you about it.”

 

Faramir became serious all at once; he knew that expression in his brother’s eyes. “Something has happened, has it?” he asked.

 

“You did not feel any of it?” Boromir asked surprised, the pain he had felt through the bond had been fierce, brutal and he had been sure Faramir should have felt it too.

 

“No.” Faramir knew what his brother was referring to. “I rarely do sense anything in the bond. I can feel you are alive but not much more, for which I am grateful. With all the stories and ballads I have heard of the War of Return, sharing the echoes of your heroics would not have been pleasant at all.” He rose, reaching for his brother’s shoulder. “Is Kili… Durin VII, I mean, is he alright?”

 

“If he were dead, we both would be walking beside him to Mahal’s great forge, brother.” Boromir reminded him. “But no… while alive things are not alright; and I need your help. I do not know to whom else I can turn.”

 

There was warmth spreading inside Faramir’s chest, they might live different lives, they might serve different kings, even their very beliefs might have grown apart, if Boromir’s reference to Mahal was any indication, but they still were the same brothers, they still trusted each other and Boromir would still trust him for help when he needed it. “What can I do?” he asked. “I feel we might be right by beginning in the library.”

 

Rising too and walking to the windows to look out, Boromir described what had transpired on the last day of September. “He said that Durin’s Bane would not again harm his people, that the curse already had what it wanted.” He repeated the words that had haunted his ride here. “and if I think back, during the last years there always was something around that time. Some injury or harm, usually chalked up to Orcs, bears, Goblins or the occasional underground accident. Kili would always be back at his feet for Durin’s day and life would go on. I never saw the pattern until I witnessed what happened in the crypts.” He turned around to face Faramir. “Durin’s Bane should be dead for twenty years now, and what I saw was no Balrog at all…”

 

“But it certainly came after your King,” Faramir had of course noticed his brother referring to Durin VII still by his given name, so all the rumors that the two were close were true. “it reminds me of something in the ancient Numenóran texts… Ar- **Pharazôn I think mentions a curse on ‘Lord or Land’ in his writings.” Faramir had been permitted by his father to study all the ancient writings, including the darkest works of the ancient Numenórans, in the pursuit of the ancient knowledge father and son had found a measure of agreement with each other for a while. Walking along the long shelves, Faramir found the tomes he was looking for quickly, putting them on the table by the great window.**

**“** Ar- **Pharazôn, wasn’t he one of the dark Numenoran Kings?” Boromir asked, he had never cared much for ancient history, if it was not battles, wars or at least good strategy.**

**“One who worshipped Melkor, built him a temple and made human sacrifices, exactly the one.” Faramir put another tome on the table, opening the books he began to search for the passages he remembered. “but he wrote down a lot of the dark knowledge he attained and that may help us now.” He looked at Boromir. “Do you have any idea or indication whence the curse originates?”**

**“None whatsoever,” Boromir had to admit. “Dwalin thinks it might be an ancient secret of Durin’s House, his brother said something to that effect before asking Kili to join them in Moria long ago.”**

**“Tied to the bloodline, that would fit all the writings claim.” Faramir said thoughtfully. Impatiently he rifled through another tome. “Unfortunately there are not that many records of Durin’s house and those that are available are mostly copied from older dwarven texts…” he sighed, pointing at a page. “and hardly legible.”**

**Boromir stepped closer seeing a now familiar writing on the page, like a longer quote copied from another text. “Moria-Khuzdul, with a few elven terms thrown in,” he said his eyes taking in the text. “And worried by the burden he felt descend upon him Durin III returned to Eregion on the eve of battle to find Celebrimbor where he dwelt in his great forge. But when he found the great elven smith, he lay in his own blood tormented and broken. ‘Beware’ he spoke. ‘because you before all others have touched an evil that will haunt you and your line until the last of its gifts is passed beyond the reach of your blood…”**

**“You can read that?” Faramir could not help to be amused, he should have expected Boromir to having learned the language of the Kingdom he had chosen to help rebuild, but knowing his brother’s dislike for books had not assumed he truly would.**

**“Yes, the text is ancient. There are similar ones in the hall of records, it must be from a time before the friendship of the dwarves and elven nations came to an end. Not that it helps us much.”**

**“If I knew more details of what we are looking for, I might be able to narrow the tomes I have to peruse.” Faramir pointed out, suddenly startled when the other door of the great library opened. Accompanied by her brother Elrohir, Queen Arwen had entered the library.**

**Faramir bowed deeply. “My Lady,”**

**The Queen smiled. “Faramir, does my husband still occupy your time with that insipid prophecy the seer spouted on the streets?” She asked, warm humor in her voice.**

**“No, my Lady, my brother brought another question to me, which I will admit confounds me.”**

**Boromir could tell that this certainly was not the first library conversation his brother had with the Queen. For Lady Arwen approached the table, quickly sorting through the books. “The History of the Dwarven tribes, The Kingdom of Moria, and Bregon’s book on the Dwarven Kings…” She sorted them to one side and frowned. “The Songs of the Dark, in Adûnaic and two translations, Lisuin’s book on** Ar- **Pharazôn, I shudder that you dare read it, and… the Book of Dark Secrets? Faramir, what on Arda are you looking for?”**

**“You must forgive, Faramir, my Lady,” Boromir spoke up. “I came to him with a question regarding a curse that has befallen my King and he was so kind to aid my search for answers.”**

**The Elven Queen studied him calmly, but not unkindly, and then she sat down in the one chair available. “Tell me of this curse, Boromir.”**

**For a second time Boromir recounted all the events of the past years and the events a few weeks ago. King Elrohir, Arwen’s brother had taken to stand leaning against one of the huge shelves, maybe the only warrior not feeling out of place in a library. The Queen listened intently, never interrupting Boromir, only sometimes encouraging him to go in with a nod, or short glance. When he was finished, her expression was very serious. “This does bode ill indeed, for only great evil could have wrought such a curse,” she said. “and Faramir, you were right, it is most certainly a curse that will fall on Lord or Land, depending if the Lord is willing to bear the pain for his people. But I fear the root of this curse may be as ancient and vile as we fear them to be. Find me Celendiar’s book on his father please, and… the Naró ra Tarmin…”**

**The Queen turned to her brother. “Elrohir, is Aelin with you?” She asked, knowing that it was more than likely; the Noldor had been friend, swordmaster and advisor to her brother since their youth. “Can you send for him?”**

**“I will at once, my sister, but whatever for?” Elrohir did immediately send one of the guards outside to have the warrior found and brought here.**

**“Because I will need him to make any sense of the Naró ra Tarmin,” Arwen said. “and I fear I will need the eye of spellsmith on this as well.” She looked back at Boromir. “Your King was crowned Durin VII, was that name by choice or was it preceded by signs that made this choice inevitable?”**

**“There were several signs, my Lady,” Boromir replied to the question. He knew that this coronation name came with the belief that Durin himself would be reborn, and that there were signs heralding him in a prospective dwarf king. “one of them the** Dolek Nardûn, another occurred when the great gates of Dwarrowdelf were reopened and the ancient light of the deeps shone again once Prince Kili touched it. The last sign was a vision of Mirrormere.” He could not say more, anything beyond that was to be shared in silence by those who had the honor to have been present. But it was enough.

 

“So the signs were there, tying him closer to the bloodline than his birth alone might have,” Arwen said thoughtfully. She took the books Faramir had brought to her. “Thank you, Faramir. Stay please; you often have the keen eye for the details that slip by me.”

 

For more than an hour the Queen silently perused the various books, now and then asking Faramir or her brother to bring her another one. When Aelin finally arrived, she had spread out tomes all over the table and two bookstands. “Aelin,” she spoke at once, not wasting time on formalities that she knew Aelin would only give her because she was Elrohir’s sister, the day had not yet come that he would bow to a Queen of men. “I need to ask your help again with this,” she pointed on the Naró ra Tarmin. “I doubt there is anyone else on this side of the sea that can still make sense of this… tongue.” She handed him the book, the page she meant already open.

 

The Noldor took the book, clearly familiar with it. “…with the Essence of the Deep, woven in such a way that should the power of the artifact fail to take hold in a willing wearer it will yield a powerful curse to fall upon Lord and Land, Kith and Kin, Blood and Brood, to be borne until all the artifact ever yielded is beyond the wearer’s reach and the generation marked by its touch is utterly spent..” he translated the text.

 

“I feared as much,” Arwen said. “there could only be one source for Durin’s Bane, if indeed the Balrog was not Durin’s Bane but only a manifestation thereof.”

 

“My Lady, you mean to say that the Balrog was a result of Durin’s Bane and not the curse itself?” Boromir felt like a cold abyss was opening under him. Had Kili borne that curse alone, never saying a word, to protect his people, to give them a home again?

 

“Indeed it is so.” Arwen said, her eyes again perusing the books. “when Durin III took the First of the Seven Rings, their true power failed to manifest, the Dark Lord never could touch the Dwarves, all the Ring did was to wake the greed for gold in them and enhance their natural skills... but with the Ring’s true power failing to manifest itself correctly, a terrible curse fell upon Durin’s house. One that may last yet to this day.”

 

“But, my Lady, Kili never even saw that thing, it was lost when he was still a child, and the power of the Rings was broken when the One Ring was destroyed, was it not?” Boromir asked, a sense of dread spreading inside him. He had seen enough of one ring to not wanting to content with another one in this lifetime.

 

“His grandfather still held that ring at the time the child was born,” Arwen pointed out. “but this touch was too fleeting to truly mar him, I fear that it is through his own actions or inactions that your King brought that upon his blood.” She raised her hand. “Nay, do not rise to his defense; I do not judge him as he could hardly know better.” The Queen’s eyes held Boromir’s gaze, not allowing him any discussion. “When your King followed his Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield to Erebor to reclaim the treasure, his Uncle fell under the spell of the gold. As far as I know Kili never opposed his Uncle in this?”

 

“No,” Boromir said softly, “he had to stand by and watch him slip away. But what has the treasure of Erebor to do with the Ring?”

 

“Everything!” Arwen rose, in that moment she was less of the Queen of Men but the Mage of the Elves speaking of things of power. “This very treasure was assembled through the power of the Ring as Thror and his father’s wielded it, the curse on the treasure might have been greatly enhanced by the dragon’s presence but the core of the curse was older and deeper. When Thorin Oakenshield fell to the spell of gold so tragically he burdened himself and his line again with Durin’s Bane, from which the curse originated. The Seven’s power may be broken but the curse lives on, and it will until the last of Durin’s blood is utterly spent and all their works fallen to ruin.”

 

“That is why he is bearing the curse in silence,” Aelin observed. “he truly is one of the strong Kings of his kind to do so. But he cannot outlast it for long.”

 

“But…” Boromir did not allow all the dread tidings drown him. “there has to be a way to break the curse, or at least to free Kili of it. There is no curse that cannot be broken.”

 

Arwen smiled at him sadly. “You truly are the loyal, stubborn man my husband claims you to be, Boromir,” she said. “but I will not lie to you – with the Rings broken and destroyed the curse has manifested itself unbound by the bonds of yore. You may be able to break it for future generations if your King does not have children and does not chose a blood-heir. The curse is tied to his line and should end with his death.”

 

“His death is not something that I will accept lightly, my Lady. Is there nothing else that can be done? I do not care what it is, as long as it frees him.”

 

“The only way to free him is one that cannot be asked of any man, or dwarf or elf,” Arwen told him. “it is something no King, no Leader, not even those much higher than them, may ask of a mortal or immortal.”

 

“You have my undivided attention, my Lady. What way would that be?” Boromir did not notice the quizzical look Faramir exchanged with Elrohir, at this question.

 

The Queen studied the Captain for a long while. “The only way to break the curse would be to alter fate itself, to prevent Kili from falling to the curse whence it originated – he must oppose his Uncle should he fall to the spell of gold, or his Uncle must be saved from it too. You see Boromir, it is something that cannot be asked of anyone, because it would mean giving up life, home, even their place in the world itself…”

 

“Are you saying it could be done?” Boromir asked. “That you know of some Elven Magic that could allow someone to be there and undo what has been done?”

 

“Have you not listened to me?” Arwen asked him. “To pass the forbidden portal would mean losing all – altering the threat of fate of whomever passed the dread threshold, they’d lose their life here, their people and family, loved ones and homes… even their place in this time for no one ever has returned from that doorstep. It cannot be asked for anyone, Boromir, no matter how brave.”

 

The Captain of the Ravens met her eyes evenly. “In that case, my Lady, you have a volunteer.”

 

 

 

 


	3. A path uncharted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new journey begins.

The guest room of Faramir’s home was comfortable but terribly impersonal. At this moment Boromir preferred it that way. Queen Arwen had told him that for the portal to be opened under the light of a new moon and Faramir had invited him to stay for the three days that remained. These three days had been good; Boromir had met his nephew and niece, along with his sister in law Éowyn.

 

But now, this afternoon he had returned to the guest room, to sort through his things, preparing to leave. Most of it was easy, he had ridden from Dwarrowdelf with what was needed for a longer journey, because he had not been sure Faramir would truly be in Annúminas, so most of it was shifting things around in the saddlebags, and leaving some things behind that he would not need where he was going.

 

Done with that he went to the armor stand in the corner of the room, taking off the silvery harness, pauldrons and gauntlets, their make was too distinctive and would draw too much attention. Gently he traced his hand over the engraved raven on the chest piece, he had worn the armor for years now, it had never failed him. But if not the splendid make of it, the material would draw too much unwanted attention. He kept the black chainmail, though, it was more practical for travelling and the dark metal did not as easily show what the material was.

 

Unrolling some things from the saddlebags, Boromir changed into travelling clothes. A leather tunic under the chainmail, and a coat above, the dark green leather coat with the hood was of dwarven make but very practical when on the road and would keep him warm, leather vambraces and selfsame boots and Boromir knew he’d not look like the Captain of the Ravens any more but like any other traveler on the road. He had often made use of that fact when he had not wanted to draw the attention of others.

 

“You really mean to do this,” Faramir had walked in soft-footedly as always. “Boromir… this is madness.”

 

The Captain of the Ravens turned to his younger brother, seeing pain and fear in Faramir’s eyes. “If it was Thorongil you’d do it in a heartbeat,” he said in friendly tones. “and you’d not let anyone talk you out of it.”

 

“It always seems easier to advice others to avoid danger than doing it yourself,” Faramir conceded the point. “Still… if you do this, there will be no way back for you. How can you even hope to accomplish this? And what about us? Will it be like you are dead… you will die there, Boromir.”

 

“I do not have all the answers, Fari,” Boromir told him honestly. “but I know it needs to be done. And I won’t deny that I will die there, even if the bond will keep me alive for longer than our blood should live, eventually my time will come. Maybe my soul will be born again in Gondor then, Mahal willing. If not… I can only trust those who made the plan for this world to know better than I do.”

 

He took off the scabbard holding Shadowbreaker, the black sword had accompanied him for twenty years, since that dark day during the War of the Ring. “I will need you to look after this, Fari.” He said, handing the blade to his brother. “If I don’t return… give it to Elboron when he is ready for it.”

 

Faramir’s eyes widened when he received the sword. He too still wore Lightbringer, easily the most powerful of the three blades. “You are not taking it with you?”

 

“Brother, think!” Boromir said. “Where I am going I may well meet the very man who made these, I hope I do. And he would recognize the sword at once. No, Faramir, these swords must rest in that armory at Minas Tirith all but forgotten until the time comes for us to find them. I sometimes think they were made with that one horrible battle in mind.”

 

“But… you will need a weapon.” Faramir was distraught, seeing his brother was determined to do this. He knew no one could talk Boromir out of this, not even Kili were he here. For a cause he believed in, or for a man who had his loyalty, his brother would do nearly everything, take any risk, fight any battle.

 

As an answer to his question Boromir picked up the double scabbard resting against the bed. During the years of the War of the Return he had quickly learned that a long blade like Shadowbreaker was impractical in narrow tunnels. Dwalin had taught him the dwarven way of fighting dual handed with shorter weapons. Boromir would never be a master at it, he did not have the dwarfs natural inclination for using both hands equally well, but he had gotten a lot of practice ever since. “I’ll use these; they will draw less attention too.”

 

Faramir set Shadowbreaker aside and approached his brother. “I do not know how to let you go, brother.” He said. “knowing that you will never return. Or how to explain to anyone… especially your King.”

 

Silently Boromir pointed to a letter sitting at the table, it had taken most of the past night to write it, he had never been a man of the written word, but there had been things that he had to say, and this letter was the only option. Somehow he knew Kili would read between the lines all the things that Boromir had been unable to express. “You let me go a long time ago, Fari. We never knew I’d return from the North, or from Moria. Do not fear and do not fret. You have a good life, a whole life, and your King is going to need you like this whole and healthy. This is my choice, and as much as it pains me to leave my friends behind… I somehow know I will find the best of them back on the same path.”

 

The brother’s embraced, knowing it would be the last time. When Faramir pulled back he took a long look at his brother like to memorize his face, like he never wanted to forget it. “May a light illuminate your path and may a star guide you home, always.” He finally spoke a goodbye that would last a lifetime.

 

                                               **                                            **                                            **

 

Boromir led his horse up the hill above Lake Evedim outside the city; the Queen awaited him on the hilltop opposite of the ancient capital of Arnor. She had brought only one guard and it was little surprise to Boromir that she had chosen Thoroniâr for the task; the man would keep his silence. The elven Queen stood utterly still, only her long cloak fluttering in the wind. “You have come,” she said calmly. “I will ask you one last time, if you are truly willing to cross the threshold many have not dared to face, not for all the promise it held.”

 

“I have not faced it before, my Lady, but I am willing.” Boromir replied politely, she seemed different today, less of the Queen and more of the Eldar, a Princess of the Elven Folk before their waning years.

 

Her eyes pierced him, like she was seeing to the core of his soul. “Then now hear what you must know approaching the portal,” she said. “once it has begun you must continue, no matter what. No pain or doubt may hold you back. When you see this sign,” her hand drew a golden layered star into the nightly air, “you will approach it and not look back, you will walk onto it, no matter what you see or hear. Do you understand me?”

 

“I do, my Lady.”

 

“Good. Now, remember this for you will not hear it again: your path is your own regardless how far you travel. Whence you are headed your path will be your own but begun anew. You will have neither ancestors nor family, and whatever life you make will be up to you. When you die there you will die as what you made yourself, mayhap someone whose true name and family no one will know. And when the time for your mother comes to bear her son, Mandos alone may know what soul he will carry. Your own destruction may be the price of your victory. Can you face that?”

 

“I can and I will, my Lady.”

 

Again her eyes studied him and he met them evenly. He knew that all this could be the price, but he would follow this path. If he died knowing his King was free of the curse, free of the torment, it would be all he could ask for.

 

“Lastly, know this: changing the fate of one man is a noble goal and worthy to strife for, changing the fate of an entire house is something few have ever accomplished but it has been done before. Try changing the fate of the world and you will incur powers that will crush you with all their might Not even the wisest can foresee the path you are about to take, consign yourself to your task, and your task alone and you may yet succeed, try to reshape fate itself and you will be faced with powers beyond your reckoning. Are you ready?”

 

“I am, my Lady.” Boromir bowed to her politely. “And I thank you for aiding me like this.”

 

“Do not thank me, Boromir, you may not wish to do so once your journey ends.” Arwen stepped aside and pointed to the mountain path. “Walk swiftly or have anything more to say?”

 

Boromir took the reins of his horse and led it up the path, passing by Thoroniâr who stood on his post, always the faithful guard. “The day we marched on the Thorn Fortress, my friend, what was it you said to me?” he asked not stopping.

 

From behind him he heard the familiar voice. “We are all but men, Boromir, not more or less than any hero or villain before us. If you remember that you will prove stronger than you may hope to become and your enemies fear you to be.”

 

With that voice carrying behind him Boromir followed the path, he did not see Arwen chant behind him, for that moment shedding the appearance of the mortal Queen and appearing as a Lady as powerful as none other since the passing of her famed grandmother, nor did he see the lights rising around her. He followed the path onwards, where he saw the golden light of the layered star. It shone like a beacon in the night, the new moon’s light fell upon it eerily.

 

When Boromir approached it, the star’s layers began to move, rotate, the first lines springing to flame, burning brightly. The Captain knew he must not waver, nor stop. Thus he grabbed the reins more firmly and approached the burning menace, leading the horse firmly with him.

 

When they crossed the first line, a fiery pain ripped through his body, like a whip lashing down through his entire being, gritting his teeth Boromir went on. The next step he took brought ghostly images up all around him. His grandfather, Ecthelion, his Uncle Imrahil, his cousin Veryan, all standing their pale trying to deter him from his chosen course, he did not stop. “Boromir…” it was Ecthelion’s whispering voice that desperately reached for him, while Veryan’s eyes were only sad, unbelieving. It hurt more than any torture to feel his bonds of blood, of kinship to them severed, scorched away by the flames of the star. 

 

The last image to appear was his father’s, the apparition did not speak but all the words he had said before his death echoed in Boromir’s mind. He nearly halted his step but made himself go on. He had chosen this, chosen to forgo all ties and bindings, to follow this path. When he took another step, the images vanished like he they had never been there but the pain returned. It was not a pain of the body, but one of the souls, like bleeding cuts he felt all the bonds and ties he had held in this world sever.

 

Another step, onward and onward, Boromir was hardly aware of the tears in his eyes, his entire focus on passing through the crucible. A searing pain rose in his sword arm, where the dragon mark was, no… he could not surrender this, not the bond to his chosen brother. He nearly stumbled when the hill path vanished, only the fiery star was burning in the darkness, and the dragon mark was churning on his arm. He went on, he had to, but he would not surrender the dragon mark, with all that was in him he reached for the bond, for mithril chain that had anchored his soul for the last twenty years, to the oath that was sworn upon it. The emptiness seemed to stretch farther, only darkness and the burning star.

 

He knew this place, Boromir realized. Years ago he had been permitted a short glance at the void, the place where the souls walked. Here the bond had been forged. “No, I will not surrender it.” he whispered, walking on, not knowing if there was even ground under his feet. This was when he saw him, the silent warrior he had seen so long ago in this place, the guardian whose short glance had taught Boromir so much about the mercy of the fate of men. Back then the short glance the guardian had cast at him had nearly shattered him, shaken him to the core. This time, as their eyes met, for that second that would be longer than Boromir’s entire life, he saw something else. Understanding. A Mercy he could not even begin to grasp.

 

And then it was over. The flaming star burned out, the void vanished and he stood on a cold hilltop above ruins of ancient Annúminas on a grey autumn morning. The last autumn moon was setting on the western horizons while the first winter sun was slowly rising.

 

                                               **                                            **                                            **

 

A lone hawk circled the grey mirror of Lake Evedim, the bird’s shrill cry the only thing to disrupt the silence of the autumn morning. Had it not been for the ruins he could see across the lake, Boromir would have doubted he was where had intended to be. But the broken road below, overgrown with barren trees and the broken walls close to the water left little doubt that he was at least not where he had been only hours ago. He leaned against the horse, the full impact of what had transpired catching up with him, there was an empty spot in him that he had never felt before, bereft of something he could not name. His eyes fell to his swordarm, the he could only see the back of his hand, the rest was covered by the vambrace, but he could see the faint outline of the dragon mark. Boromir straightened up, his eyes warming when he saw the mark. No matter that he was no one’s son now, belonging to no clan or house, he still had a brother and he was still sworn to Durin’s line, who needed more?

 

Noise like footsteps of several people down in the valley broke his reverie and reminded him that this might not be the time and place to be about daydreaming. “Hurry, up the hill and to the ruins! Run!” he heard a voice bellow. “More are coming!”

 

A handful of people, all of them hill people were scrambling up the hillside, Boromir counted seven women, a number of children and three men. “Run!” he heard someone snap. “make for the ruins.” Boromir could not see the person who had called out, he must be further down in the vale. But like an answer he heard a howl, the deep fierce howl of a Warg echo from the other side of the valley.

 

If he had harbored any doubts about where he was, this would have settled it. He was definitely back in the Lone Lands, and the Warg pack was right down upon him. He left his horse behind and hurried downhill to where those covering the fleeing people must be.

 

To his surprise he saw only two fighters, aiding the fleeing farmers. Two short figures, standing between the rocks in the valley. One blond with two swords in hand, ready to fight, the other an archer, long brown hair flying in the autumn wind, his arrows still aimed well enough to pick the Orcs off their ugly mounts. Only two, but they were ready to fight the Orc pack.

 

Boromir saw more Orcs appear to their left; they were enough to encircle the two brave fighters easily enough. He leaped forward, standing between them and their target. His blades crippling two wargs on first strike, cutting their front legs off. Several warg riders turned to him, launching into a wild attack, he had seen it countless of times, attacking them just as fiercely, getting rid of their wolves first, before turning on the orc riders. On  the other side, he saw the blond dwarven warrior fight much the same way, he had  a tough stand against a number of them, but he held himself with a ferocious will, thinning out their ranks with his blades. What a fighter! An arrow hissed past Boromir, taking out an orc that had been at his back.

 

It had been no more than a dozen warg riders and as Boromir cut down the last one with a quick stroke of both blades to the throat, leaving a carcass sprouting stinking blood on the dry grass, he saw one last orc at a distance raising his bow, aiming for the archer. “Oh no, you won’t…” Boromir was in the path of the arrows quicker than he could think, bringing his blade about. He had seen Kili do that hundreds of times, deflecting arrows with his sword, but he failed at it, the blade missed the arrow and the black orc arrow impaled itself in Boromir’s right forearm. The orc never got a chance for a second shot. The blond dwarf had thrown something, a small axe and it hit the orc right into the head.  

 

“That was the last of them,” the blond warrior announced, sheathing his swords, walking around the rocks towards Boromir. “Thank you, stranger, that was timely aid.”

 

“You are such a buffoon, Fili, he just took an arrow,” the archer came around too, both standing in front of Boromir. The Gondorian warrior’s eyes widened. This was Kili… he knew it beyond the shadow of doubt, the face, even the wild dark mane were familiar, but he was so _young._ Without a proper beard and a youthful confidence shining in his eyes, like he could take on the entire world and still come out on top. There was nothing of the grimness, the pain that would mark him in later years. There was a light and life shining in those black eyes, Boromir had seen the same expression in the older Kili but rarely, in moments when Kili was relaxed, laughing with friends, his eyes would shine like that. But here… this young warrior was still alive, unbroken and not touched by pain and shadow. And the one beside him, it had to be his brother. Boromir had of course seen drawings of Fili as well as the stone statue Kili had carved, but he always imagined an older brother to the Kili he knew, not a warrior so young that he’d remind him of Faramir of long gone times. He sat down on the rock, his head spinning.

 

“You alright?” Fili approached him. “You didn’t get a warg bite?”

 

“No, I am fine.” Boromir replied. “we need to get these people out of here. Do you think there’s an Orc pack behind those wargs?”

 

“Doubtful,” Fili replied, with a cool shrug. “Mahal be thanked they are not that organized.  Let me have a look at that arrow in your arm.”

 

“Later,” Boromir shook his head. “these people don’t need to scramble through half the ruins of Annúminas, let’s bring them home first. I’ll break off that arrow, remove the rest later.”

 

“Are you crazy? That’s an orc arrow; you don’t want to get their rabies?” Kili hard joined them. “It’ll make you grow black skin and tusks. Here, let me see that, if it went through clean we can remove it quickly.” He reached for Boromir’s arm, when their hands touched a surge of sheer pain, ran through both, Boromir bit his lip, while Kili screamed, as a fiery band wound around both their arms, like fiery drakes flaring brightly. For a moment it hovered like liquid fire, burning trough their skins to their very souls, and then blackness took them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to harrylee94 again, who keeps enouraging and inspiring me.


	4. To begin anew

Waking up felt like diving up a long dark shaft full of icy water with the light unreachably high above. Awareness began slowly to creep into the darkness of Boromir’s mind, blossoming like the spark of a fire in the wind.  It was not the external awareness that brought him back from the deeps, even as he slowly realized he was lying somewhere on a blanket beside a fire. It was something else that he felt more strongly; it was another awareness, like an echo, a candle of light in the back of his mind, the mithril chain, his anchor. The bond was there again, as strong and intense as it had been; only that Kili’s presence was stronger, more vibrant than he had ever felt it.

 

“How are we going to explain this?” He heard a voice say. “If he will not kill us, Uncle Thorin will have our hides for this.” It had to be Kili, the voice was familiar though it yet lacked the deep bronze quality it had held in later years.

 

“He won’t do anything of that sort, Kili. He will see the mark and know what it means; he always said you were special.” Boromir recognized the second voice as Fili’s, even as he had him heard him speak only once.

 

“You know that’s not true,” Kili protested. “it must be a mistake; a misunderstanding or something. I mean, I'm  not... only heroes have marks like these! I am no Frérin Dragonsbane, or Alberic Stonebow, they were great warriors and…”

 

“Look at your arm, little brother,” Fili spoke in calm, nearly gentle tones. “This is the dragon seal… it has to mean something, that you have a path, a destiny to fulfill.”

 

Boromir bit his lip to not groan. He knew the stories of Frérin Dragonsbane and Alberic Stonebow, both were dwarven heroes of the elder days and both were legends Kili had liked. He had heard them a dozen times, sometimes told by Kili or Dwalin, sometimes sung by Bofur. And both had received a mark, a sign of sorts, after battles in their youth, which heralded their destiny.

 

“But… even if Uncle does not skin us for this. How are we explaining this to him over there? Fili, he took an arrow for me and now suddenly he has an oath mark on his arm? He’s not going to like it, and I doubt he’ll understand…” The younger brother turned around, having felt a surge of awareness from their strange guest.

 

Boromir sat up, finding that he was in a small camp below a rock face and it was obviously after dark. “Why don’t you try me?” he asked, in response to Kili’s last words.

 

Both brothers stared at him with wide eyes. “You understood what we were saying?” Fili found his words quicker than his brother.

 

Now Boromir realized his own mistake, the brothers had spoken Khuzdul amongst themselves. Dwarves would often retreat into the relative safety of their own language when they did not want to be understood by others. They guarded their language jealously, and there were few outside of their race who spoke their ancient tongues. In his years among them Boromir had learned the language, it had been a sign of accepting him as one of their own that they had been open to share the gift of Mahal with him and with the years passing he had gotten so used to hearing the dwarven language that he hardly noticed the difference any more.

 

“Look at him; he has no idea what you are on about, Fili.” Kili said, getting up and walked to the other side of the fire, where he squatted down beside Boromir. “You understand what I am saying?” he asked, still talking Khuzdul. His dark eyes searched Boromir’s face, showing worry and compassion in equal measure.

 

“Of course,” Boromir replied, his response had been entirely to that familiar glance, in that moment he had spoken to his friend, only to realize that Kili here did not know him yet. “I…”

 

“But you think you still speak Westron,” Kili smiled and shook his head, mistaking what Boromir had wanted to say for something else. “Legend has it that it was what the oath mark did for Khaelin when he saved Alberic from the dragon…”

 

“I know you speak dwarven, I have heard it before, but you sound strange at the same time.” Boromir could not help but notice that Kili sounded much different from the man he’d know later, the accent he spoke was different. Maybe he had changed as he got older, but right here and now the difference was startling.

 

The dark haired dwarf looked at him amused. “You speak it too, and you sound like someone taught you ancient Moria-Khuzdul. Who in the world would still speak that?” Kili sighed. “I don’t know where to even start explaining.”

 

Boromir had never seen Kili so insecure; usually the dwarven leader had known what to say or how to approach a situation. The calm confidence of him had often been his strongest trait in confused situations. He could sense a whirl of emotions and fears through the bond, compared to that Kili’s outward pose was remarkably calm still. “Why not begin where it all started?” Boromir suggested. “We took care of those orcs, the farmers got away and you got that arrow out of me, thank you for that.” he could see a clean bandage on his right arm, left and right of the dressing shone the dragon mark in fresh fire.

 

“You are right, meeting Orcs made us forget our manners.” Kili replied. “This is my brother Fili, I am Kili, sons of Dari, at your service.”

 

“Boromir, at yours and your family’s.” How long ago had he first heard this greeting, not truly knowing dwarven formalities, back in that cave under the Misty Mountains?

 

Tilting his head slightly, Kili looked at him questioningly, like expecting something. “Boromir of which family?” he eventually asked.

 

For one moment Boromir was tempted to say _Boromir Son of Denethor_ as was his reflex, even as he had not used that name in many years. But he could not, he knew he had no bonds to his blood anymore, and thus could not claim kinship. “I do not have a family,” it felt strange to say it out loud, painful even.

 

Suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, Kili’s eyes looking at him with such compassion. “I am sorry,” the young dwarf said. “I did not mean to pry, or hurt you.”

 

“Do you remember what happened at the end of the fight?” Fili spoke up. “When you took that arrow? What were you thinking?”

 

“I do remember seeing that Orc, trying to shoot Kili,” Boromir replied. “I have seen that tactic before; they send their rabble on a fighter while one archer shoots him from a distance and I wouldn’t let them.”

 

The brothers looked at each other, there was a wealth of words on only their glance, and they did not need to words to converse. “So you thought only of protecting my brother?” Fili went on. “That might… just might… explain things.”

 

“Explain what?” Boromir did not need to look at them to know they were trying to explain something to him, something they did not know how to say.

 

Kili pointed at his arm. “Do you see that mark?” he asked, before removing his own bracer and revealing the identical mark on his swordarm. “It’s called a bond-mark or an oath-seal, they are all but legends but they appeared right after you took that arrow for me.”

 

Seeing the familiar dragon mark on Kili’s arm send a surge of warmth through Boromir’s chest, in this moment he knew he may be stranded in a different time, in a different fate entirely, but he was not lost. His brother was right here, even if it may take him years to understand what the mark meant. “An Oath Mark like the one Thalion received when he saved Durin II from the Balrog?” Boromir knew that term but he was not sure if the mark was the same as the dragon mark on his arm. Only now that he looked he noticed that the runic inscription under the dragon’s mouth was gone. What did that mean?

 

“You only saved him from an Orc,” Fili teased. “It’s a crippled age we live in. But yes, it is fundamentally the same; you know your legends well.”

 

“A dwarf I wandered with for a while was fond of them.” Boromir leaned back against the rocks, relaxing slightly. There had been several dwarven heroes and legends that had been singled out through a mark of some sorts, but Boromir had never expected that their bond, the seal of brotherhood would ever be seen in this light. No one had in their time, but of course they had known how it had come about. “An oath mark is the sign of loyalty, is it not? Sworn to the carrier of the seal?”

 

“That’s what the legends say,” Kili shook his head fiercely. “But this here is different. You did not know me, and you certainly have no reason to be bound to me like this. We’ll find a way to undo it, somehow.”

 

The compassion and care for others that spoke from these words was so very familiar to Boromir, No matter how much younger this was Kili, true to form. “Thalion did not know Durin II either, nor did Khaelin know Alberic when he saved him from the dragon,” Boromir pointed out; glad he knew these legends well enough. “Fate put them on a path together for a reason. Breaking this mark would make me an oath breaker, Kili, and no matter how it got there in the first place, I won’t become an Oath breaker for it.” He still remembered those haunted figures from Dunharrow on the fields of Pelennor, driven, twisted, tormented and seeking a forgiveness that could never be fully reached.

 

Some of his own dread at that memory must have spilled into the bond because Kili suddenly put his hand firmly on Boromir’s shoulder. “Nor would I put you to such a shame,” the young dwarf said earnestly. “But you had no choice in this and you hardly know whom you got bound to. I am no leader, no King, and certainly no Durin II, I am a wandering blacksmith and…” Now a well familiar determination shone in Kili’s eyes. “no matter what this means, I’d rather begin as friends, than anything else.”

 

It was such a Kili thing to say, he had always preferred an honest friendship to loyalty stemming from obligations. His modest assessment of himself all but made Boromir smile, here, in this moment it was truly hard to see that this same warrior would be crowned under the great dome of Dwarrowdelf a century from now. “Then friend’s it is,” he said, offering a hand.

 

Kili responded in typical dwarven fashion, a warrior’s handshake, hand around the other’s forearm. The young dwarven blacksmith looked at the human warrior and silently wondered if Boromir had any idea what he had gotten into. An Oath Mark was a seal of loyalty as strong and powerful as any oath a man might take on his life and soul. How and why this mark had appeared, Kili did not know, even as he knew that some of the greatest dwarven heroes had found their most loyal companions in much the same way. Whatever came of this, from this moment on, he was responsible for this warrior and would look out for him best that he could.

 

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They broke camp at the hour before dawn, the brothers quickly packing their things on the two shaggy pack ponies they had with them. They had found Boromir’s horse the evening before and it had been grazing peacefully beside the two ponies. “Where are you headed?” Boromir asked as they walked into the grey dawn. Both ponies were too well packed to be ridden; he could spot tools, iron staffs and other things left and right on them.

 

“Coldrock crossroads,” Fili told him. “They hold autumn market there, the day after the last autumn moon. Last market during the year for them and most villages around will come. There’ll be a lot of tools and blades to repair now that harvest is long home. There’s something just like this one in Archet nine days from now. If we are good, we’ll make both before we return to our hideout for the winter.”

 

“We might make Whitewater bridge still, if the good weather holds,” Kili added. “Do you mind guarding the ponies during the day? The people around Coldrock are no bad kind but there are always thieves and rogues when there’s a market somewhere, especially this late in the year.”

 

“I’ll take care of that.” Boromir had let the reins of his horse go; it followed him at his command anyway, and took his bow from the saddle. High above them he could hear the distinct call of the Northern geese flying south. The wandering geese were still here, meaning winter would truly be late this year. When they came closer to land on the grassy hills, he stopped firing three arrows in rapid succession, only to notice that Kili had done the same.

 

Rolling his eyes Fili ran to gather up the fallen birds, when he returned his grinned broadly. “Bad luck, little brother, you lost three to one, this time.” He said ruffling Kili’s hair affectionately. “But yours was the fattest of the bunch.”

 

“We wouldn’t eat any more than one either way.” Kili shot back defensively. “Fat or no fat.”

 

“But we can sell the rest.” Fili told him cheerfully. “Many of the villagers don’t know how to hold a bow for the very life of them.”

 

“Sell them all, Kili and I will have you a bunch of hares before we are at Coldrock crossing,” Boromir interjected, which earned him a happy grin from the younger brother.

 

Fili watched as his brother and their new companion strayed to the hills left and right of their path. Boromir’s words had resulted in a cheerful archery contest between them and Boromir in spite of being a good archer had to be on his toes to keep up. Kili was very good with his bow and had a keen eye along with a swift aim. The older dwarven brother knew that Kili thoroughly enjoyed the contest with someone who was good at Kili’s chosen weapon and he also knew his brother minded little when he lost as long as the contest was good. They’d have quite a bit of extras to trade at the market, which was always a good thing.

 

But it was not the market or works that occupied Fili’s thoughts on this morning. It was the human warrior whom he watched as he went hunting with Kili. When the fiery bands had grabbed both their arms and Fili had seen the mark appear on his brother’s skin, he had felt like he had suddenly stumbled into a great legend. Frérin Dragonsbane had been marked by such a seal, indicating the destiny that awaited him, Durin II was another great example from the elder days and suddenly Kili, his little brother had been touched by the spark of destiny as well.

 

Fili was not jealous in the least, Kili had always been special, he had known that since the horrible storm night his little brother had been born in. While he had been very small himself at the time, Fili remembered that night well, the rolling thunder echoing through the valley, the noise of fighting in the distance and rain trashing down on them. A lightning bolt had struck the very moment Kili had been born, setting the trees aflame and their mother had always said that Kili had been born under a sign, which was why he was special. Fili smiled fondly, when he saw Kili cheerfully congratulating their companion on a good shot. Try as he might deny it, Kili had gained his first follower, done his first step on the path to destiny, and his brother would protect him best that he could and as long as he could.

 

The two of them returned, tying some hares to the other load on the horse. Fili met the warrior’s eyes, green eyes meeting blue, and in that moment the older brother knew that Boromir understood. He knew what the oath mark meant and accepted it. Why he would do so Fili could not determine, but maybe he felt as strongly as Fili did that this was meant to be.

 

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Coldrock crossing was nothing but that, a crossroads under a stony hill in the shadow of a few ancient oak trees. The paths running into the hills led to the next few villages, settlements of hill people mainly or of whomever still were stubborn enough to try and hold onto this wild land. They had arrived early, and Boromir was seeing to making camp for them, freeing up the two brothers to set up shop down by the road. Fili used an old tree stump to anchor the small anvil firmly, while Kili prepared their small fire pit, what they did resembled much a battlefield forge Boromir had seen in many war camps in his time.

 

Only that this was the typical traveling dwarven smithy. They did not need a larger fireplace, because they used dwarven fire. During his time among them Boromir had quickly learned that dwarves could make a hot fire from nearly all flammable matieral that needed very little fuel, a good dwarven smith also could use his innate link to the flame to keep his work piece at exactly the temperature he needed. They attributed this skill to Mahal giving them the gift of fire and forge at their very creation and cherished it especially.

 

Meanwhile Boromir had gotten a normal fire going; there was enough dead wood to be had to keep a fire going all day. He hung the kettle over it, skinning the rabbits they had shot, their meat along with some mushrooms and late herbs would make a decent stew. He had noticed that the brothers had set out without eating anything in the morning, and they’d be hungry ere the day was out.

 

The villagers arrived with carts and pack ponies; there was neither rule nor true order to the market of theirs, just a kind of silent compact, maybe tradition to rule certain things. Many things traded here were grain and flour, other produce, very little in terms cattle and livestock, though. Fili and Kili soon had their hands full with work, many of the villagers bringing tools to sharpen things to repair and so forth. The sun rose on that windy early winter day into a cold blue sky, the fire down at the field forge and up at their camp being a comfortable thing in a day such as this. Around noon Boromir brought two bowls of stew down to the brothers, who just had been fixing the blades of a plow. He could see both were not used to take much breaks during their work, but hungrily took the stew. “Do we have enough still?” Fili asked, spooning down the hot soup quickly

 

“I shot another goose, if that’s what you worry about.” Boromir told him. “Eat up.” He realized that with their work the brothers had little time to hunt or find food, being forced to make do with whatever pay they received for their work.

 

Returning back to their camp on the hill, Boromir checked on the ponies, he knew his horse would have made a ruckus if anyone came close and it seemed that the presence of an armed warrior was enough to keep the thieves and rogues, and there clearly were a number of those, at a distance. With the market being noisy there was little hope for hares or other game to come close, but it was still valid to keep an eye up for the wild geese that roamed the sere fields of the villages close by and came to the small stream near the crossing.

 

Meat, Boromir learned quickly on that afternoon was a good thing to trade. It seemed most farmers had little in terms of livestock, or maybe just too much was stolen by orcs, and they gladly traded for some extras. It was a hard faced hill woman who gladly traded bread for the goose he had shot. “You are with those dwarf boys, are you?” she asked, inspecting the goose. “I wonder what they do to keep you around.”

 

“Maybe I am just a friend.” Boromir replied, arms crossed in front of his chest.

 

“Mighty fine friend then,” the village woman sniffed. “Too high and mighty for their kind, if you get my meaning. But it’s said they have the noses for treasure hunting if that’s your business.” She began to bundle up the bread and the flour bag they had agreed on.

 

“You don’t like them.” Boromir observed. “Why? They do honest work, and I doubt you’ll find a better blacksmith somewhere nearby.”

 

“They do good work, aye,” The woman shook her head. “but they ain’t decent folk. Dwarven wanderers, belonging nowhere. They aren’t proper decent people.”

 

Boromir cast a disdainful glance at some of the people around them. “I think I prefer them to the proper decent people of this place.” He told her sharply. Returning back to camp he had to try and keep his temper in check. He knew that her assumptions were probably based on his weapons and maybe the way he spoke, but her looking down on the two brothers, was something he found hard to tolerate.

 

The sun was already deep on the western horizon when the market began to break up. Many of the farmers were loading their carts and ponies to return to their villages, some others made camp to spend the night here in the safety of a larger group. Kili and Fili did not have such a quick respite, there were still people coming to them for repairs and horseshoes.

 

For about an hour Boromir had observed a young farmer watching them, and then retreating again, and watching anew. Eventually he approached the man, when he found him watching again from a distance. “Is anything wrong?” he asked him, trying to sound firm without outright threatening. “You have been watching the dwarves for an hour now.”

 

The young man with the shaggy brown hair shrugged. “I’ll be going then,” he said. “I don’t want trouble.”

 

“Boromir, just send him over!” Kili called out, having finished the last horseshoes for another farmer. He supported the call with a clear gesture, waving the man over to them. The Gondorian watched as the man approached Kili showing him a badly damaged axe. Even without the ragged state of the man’s apparel it was easy to tell that the farmer or woodcutter would not have the coin for the repairs. They talked for a few moments, and then Kili lightly clapped the man’s arm. “Don’t worry, sit over there, it won’t take long.” He said, taking the axe along for repairs. It took him a while to repair it before he gave it back, sending the man away with a friendly word.

 

Night fell and the two dwarves joined Boromir by the fire, exhausted from a day of hard work and hungry as young wolves. “Where did you learn to cook?” Kili asked between two spoons of hot stew. “This is good.”

 

Boromir put aside his bowl, having watched the two young dwarves mostly. “Warcamps, you have no idea what kind of things some soldiers will put into a kettle and call soup.” Inwardly he had already decided he’d see to hunting the next days, with enough time on his hands he could at least make sure those two saw plenty of food.

 

Kili looked up at him. “You are forgetting to eat,” he said. “Dwarves may be the most interesting of all races but not interesting enough to forget your food while watching us.”

 

Fili chuckled. “Now you will have to prove to him that we are an interesting race at all, little brother. You owe us at least one ballad tonight.”

 


	5. Of steel and lesser metals

  
  


The winter was a wretched one, snow had begun to fall the day after they had left Archet for Whitewater Bridge and sometimes Boromir thought it had never stopped ever since. When they had left Whitewater the two young dwarves had found their hideout near Watchill occupied by a band of men and barred to them for this winter. Kili and Fili had taken this turn of events with a quiet acceptance that did not fit their characters otherwise. But in the weeks past Boromir had already learned that the brothers were good at keeping their temper in check and their heads down while in the settlements of men.

 

It was something Boromir found painful to watch. The brothers’ skills as blacksmiths were always asked for, they could repair tools as well as craft blades or make horseshoes, and their work granted them permission to enter most settlements and villages. But that was all the welcome they could expect, they remained strangers expected to leave once work was complete and scorned for not belonging anywhere. Both were smart enough to know this. They usually camped outside the villages, keeping their presence among those they worked for at a minimum. Still it was painful to see how their usually open and cheerful selves vanished behind the subdued façade they wore when around men.

 

Until he came here Boromir had always assumed that Kili’s stoic silence and calm had been the result of the horrific loss of his brother. Now he saw where Kili had learned that trait, where he had learned to not hear insults and take scorn with such utter silence. Sometimes Boromir was glad that hunting for food took so much time, he found it hard to not put some of these arrogant hill people down to teach them a lesson.

 

With their hideout taken the brothers had quickly resolved that it would be best to keep moving. There were a number of settlements up north, within the reaches of Carn Dum, not exactly nice people but they did hold winter markets and would gladly allow a blacksmith about even in the cold times. What they said proved true enough, though being on the road all winter was hard, even with their combined skills in surviving off the land. Boromir kept to hunting and the brothers were able to make a fire no matter how badly frozen the firewood was, so they neither starved nor froze. Still Boromir could see how much strength those long winter wanderings took out of his two friends. He had to be careful to not show his concern too openly, or Kili would pick up on it. “Don’t worry it’s not so bad,” the young dwarf had told him after the first snowstorm. “as a matter of fact it is worse, but we still laugh a lot.” Surviving on a fire and a few songs was an art those two had mastered definitely.

 

Around the elven New Year their travels had led them to a hidden settlement not that far away from the Ettenmoors. It was the first time Boromir saw a Dunedain settlement, hidden in the last reaches of the mountains. It was the first place where his presence garnered them open suspicion. All other people they had encountered so far might have speculated what the brothers did to keep him around, sometimes with truly lurid suggestions but had cared less what a mercenary, and that was what he was believed to be most of the time, would want with two dwarfs. The Dunedain had the keener eye, recognizing him as someone who, like themselves, was of Numenóran ancestry and became quickly distrustful. The debate had ended when Kili had told the leader of the settlement that either they accepted Boromir’s presence or all three of them would leave and the Dunedain could wait for another blacksmith to repair their weapons and armor.

 

They had stayed five days in that place, the brothers having their hands full with work and Boromir gladder than ever that hunting took him out of the camp for hours at a time. While things had annoyed him so far, he had kept telling himself that the hill people were simply crude folk, men of lesser ancestry and could hardly be expected to show some noble spirit. Seeing the Dunedain here made things worse, while they would surely not use crude words or lurid suggestions about the three, they treated the dwarfs with a cool distance that made quite clear that their opinion of the wandering dwarfs was not very high either.

 

On that evening Fili had joined him, helping him with the fire where the young wild boar he had shot was roasting. “You were used to better, were you?” he asked, putting down a few large chunks of firewood.

 

“It’s not that,” Boromir replied. “I hate how they treat you. They should be glad you even came here, most common blacksmiths could not do half the work you do, you repair tools, mend pots and you repair swords and armor as well, better than many a smith of men I have seen… and they treat you like you are beggars on the road.”

 

The older dwarven brother actually clasped Boromir’s shoulder with his strong hand. “Meaning, yes.” He said, a bit of sadness in his eyes. “It’s not half as bad with you around. All your hunting alone made this year easy on us and… with you near we didn’t get accused for every theft and thievery that happened while we stayed. Nice change to not get the lashes for it.”

 

The statement left Boromir shocked for words, whenever Kili had ever spoken of his wandering years it had been more about the lands he had crossed, about working in the quarries when the Paros bridges had been built and being a bladesmith in the warcamps outside of Dol Amroth on the eve of another Umbar campaign, making horseshoes in Rohan, he had never spoken of the pettiness he had experienced, or the cold that met the wanderers. Suddenly Boromir remembered that evening in Ithilien after the battles. Kili had rather been willing to humble himself and kneel to Dáin, than let his people go back to life on the road. He had known all too well what it had meant.

 

“… Dwalin, is a mercenary.” He heard Fili say. “He will be sure able to help you to get in with their crowd, there is always work to be found for a sharp blade.”  

 

“No.” Boromir returned the gesture, clasping Fili’s shoulder with his hand. “I am where I want to be, Fili and I won’t wander off.” Only now he realized that Kili had joined them as well, the wordless hug from both brothers said more than any well-chosen sentence could have conveyed.

 

                                               +                                             +                                             +

 

Their wanderings had continued through most of the winter, until they had arrived in Bree again in early march. Snow was finally melting and the roads were a deep murk. The gates of Bree were opened during midday; the village was brimming with a number of strangers on that new spring day. “Look who it is!” A deep voice called out, as they passed through. Turning around Boromir saw figure with the first shadows of a respectable black beard among some packhorses, it took him a second glance to recognize Brea, daughter of Briga, who had called out to Kili and Fili.

 

The brothers greeted their fellow dwarf heartily. “You are out early, Brea.” Fili said. “you usually don’t leave before the roads are dry again.”

 

The dwarven trader laughed. “Maybe I promised a poor mother to leave a message for her wayward boys.” She said with a wink. “And there’ll be a southern ship down at old Tharbad port by April and I have wares to trade.” Her expression got more serious. “Something has your Lady Mother truly worried this time, you rascals. And she is not one to worry easily, or she’d be all grey with the two of you. Make sure you get back uphill and look after her, will you?”

 

“Promise, Brea.” Kili said. “We were on our way back anyway.”

 

“Good, I’d hate for Lady Dis to be distressed.” Brea reminded them. “And Fili, you remember that stuff you buried three years ago? Dig it up and make use of it now, rumor has it there’s a time coming for that.”

 

Only when they parted ways Boromir noticed that Brea had not inquired about him at all. Even with all her light-hearted and direct treatment of the brothers, she did not resume to question their doings beyond delivering a scolding from their mother. “What did she mean with digging up what you buried?” he asked as they turned north, towards the Ered Luin.

 

Kili made a face. “Three years ago Brea ago attacked by a gang of robbers. Orcs mostly, we happened to be close at hand and helped out. But their leader…” He did not go on, clearly uneasy with the subject.

 

“Their leader was a dwarf,” Fili interjected. “Stiffbeard by the looks of him, I called him out and put an end to his robbery days. He had some valuable possessions, along with some gold. But this one here..” he lightly poked his brother. “would not hear of us taking any blood-gold.”

 

“It was Orc gold, Fili.” Kili defended himself. “And who knows whom he all robbed to attain so much? We don’t need that kind of coin.”

 

“Eventually Kili agreed to let me burry it, in case we really hit a hard spot one day.” Fili went on. “I don’t know what Brea meant, though. If mother was not well she’d have told us straight away and probably told us to find our Uncle as soon as possible.”

 

“She must have had a reason to say so,” Boromir pointed out. The Brea he remembered was a level-headed dwarf, always planning three steps ahead and usually well prepared for all kinds of surprises fate might throw at her. She, like Fili and Kili too, belonged to the generation that had been orphaned with the battle of Azanulbizar.

 

“It is blood money, Boromir.” Kili looked up at him with absolute conviction. “this _dwarf_   used Orcs and some vile men to rob and pillage, not speaking of worse. Who knows whom all he hurt before Fili made an end to him? That coin is dirty; it was taken from his victims.”

 

It was strange, back when they had first met, they had clashed over the question of some buried treasure in a ruin centuries old. “It is battlefield loot,” Boromir pointed out, seeing that Fili did squirm a bit under his brother’s fierce lashing out at the topic. “And it belongs to the victor. There’s nothing dishonorable in that. And those these robbers killed… wouldn’t they be glad to know it was taken by the one who avenged them?”

 

“We’ll dig it up and then see what Brea was talking about.” Fili decided as they went on. “Who knows what is happening at home.”

 

                               +                                                            +                                                            +

 

Boromir had never seen the dwarven settlement in the Ered Luin, when the conquest of Moria began it had been all but abandoned with all the populace supporting the reclaiming of Dwarrowdelf. When they finally rode into the long stretching vale the waters of the lower Lune had cut into the mountains he was surprised to see two weathered stone statues greet them. Those figures depicted dwarven warriors but they were battered and broken, a third lay on the ground like some great upheaval had felled the mighty stone warrior long ago. It was impossible to decipher who they had been depicting, their faces were worn away by the wind and rain of many centuries. The road wound past the old figurines and towards a rock face at the end of the valley. “Welcome to the valley of Cardemir,” Kili said with a small smile. “once known as the Katûb-Melhekhin Khuzdíl.”

 

“The Home of the Dwarven Kings?” Boromir could hear that this was ancient Khuzdul, using a few forms that had fallen out of use, but the meaning of the line still remained. “Then this is the valley of Belegost?” The great dwarven Kingdom of the First Age was said to have been destroyed when Beleriand sank beneath the waves.

 

“It is indeed, the ancient ruins were where we began to make our new home.” Kili explained. “It is an inhabited ruin essentially, but its home.”

 

His words proved right quickly enough, because beyond the stone door that led into the mountain lay no regularly dwarven city, but first a patched bridge that led into a maze of ruins, cave-ins and new homes, strewn in between. Boromir had no doubts that two ages ago Belegost had been a splendid city, but now it was a crumbling ruin that made Moria look stable and orderly by comparison. Still the industrious dwarves had stemmed failing ceilings with new support beams, cleared away rubble and remade old homes for their use. The heavy smell of fires, furnaces and hot iron told Boromir also that the air shafts of the city could not be half as intact as Moria’s.

 

The brothers led the way down a spiraling road that had mostly workshops left and right and while Boromir attracted a fair number of stares, no one asked questions, not even the patrol of two old warriors that passed them. The road took another turn and they crossed a mended bridge to reach a single home and forge sitting on a rock spire standing in a chasm. It was a dead end; to three sides a dark chasm surrounded this pinnacle. “Kili! Fili!” A figure emerged from the open workshop to greet them.

 

This time Boromir had a hard time not to stare. What he had known of Kili’s mother, Princess Dis, had come from a handful stories and the song of Willow Tree. He had always imagined her as a Lady of the Dwarves, a Princess. He certainly had not expected a broad-shouldered person, short even for a dwarf, with wild dark hair and the entire stature of a blacksmith.

 

Dis embraced both of her boys in a fierce hug, holding them close, happy they had returned home.  She had even darker hair than Kili but her eyes were the same shade of intense blue that Fili shared. “You look good for someone who had to traipse around Eriador all winter.” She said with a broad smile. Her gaze fell on Boromir, then went back to her sons. “A new friend?”

 

“Yes,” Kili answered. “Mother, this is Boromir, Boromir, Dis daughter of Thrain…”

 

Boromir bowed courteously, but Dis waved it off and clasped his hand firmly. “Welcome to Stormwyrd Hall, Boromir. You must be tired from the journey… no, don’t lie, I know these two, the wild wind spirits must have been their cradle guardians the way the like to roam.”

 

“I’ve yet to meet hardier travel companions,” Boromir admitted, finding a way to turn it into compliment.

 

“Mother,” Fili joined in. “how we met is a long story…”

 

Dis laughed heartily. “You know the rule, Fili; long stories are for after dinner. Show your friend where he can wash up and where he can rest. Unpack the horses before, though.”

 

Stormwyrd Hall proved to be a maze of broken and fixed stone chambers. Most of the living rooms were below ground in the pillar, with the workshop above ground. The brothers shared a subterranean chamber at the dead end of a broken hallway, and Fili showed Boromir to a similar place opposite of theirs. The rooms were small, but the dwarves had managed to make them comfortable nevertheless. The chance alone to wash up and have a roof overhead was a luxury to be enjoyed.

 

That evening when they set in front of the roaring fire, Dis asked her sons to tell her the whole story. Boromir watched the brothers with their mother as they told the entire story. It was not a stark, short tale, both brothers animatedly and colorfully described the details from the moment they had met fighting the orcs, often they alternated between telling parts of the story. He had to admit, it took someone used to them to follow the whirlwind tale they made out of their meeting, Dis laughed more than once, often her questions would make her sons recount something in greater detail.

 

Eventually she asked Boromir and Kili to show her the marks on their arms. They complied and Dis examined them in great detail, paying close attention to the smallest detail. “There is little doubt,” she eventually said, for a moment a sad glance touching her younger son. “this is a grave responsibility, Kili and expect you to live up to it.” Then she looked at Boromir. “Your fate was sealed to our family’s, you will be welcome here as long as Stormwyrd Hall abides.”

 

                                               +                                             +                                             +

 

The next morning brought another dwarf with a message for Dis before actual dawn could be up outside the underground city. Dis frowned hearing it. “I will have to see Gloin’s wife,” she told her sons. “She has not been well of late, not with losing her baby last autumn. I may send Gimli over for a while, if it is too bad.” Swiftly Dis began to pack up a few things. “Kili, the forge is ready for you, you know what to do, Fili, it’s axeblades for you. The steel is horrible, much of it was the worst orc junk; I already put it through the smelter and back into iron rods. But you’ll have to do your own refining. But I saw you brought some good material on your ponies along with more Orc steel.”

 

Her two sons laughed. “With no thanks to the orcs providing all the material.” Fili remarked.

 

Dis shook her head. “Ranwen should come by today, bringing more iron junk,” she said. “Boromir, when he does, have an eye on him. He thinks that he does not have to listen to anyone, and often is drunk when he should be working. Make him unload his cart and have him on his way without tarrying.” With that Dis hurried out of the house to take care of one of her fellow dwarves.

 

Boromir accompanied the brothers to the forge, he could not do much more than take a sharpening stone and do weapon’s maintenance, but he liked watching them work their craft when there was nothing else to do. This morning it was not long that they were joined by a young dwarf, a youth not yet grown into even a semblance of manhood. He had red hair and only a faint red trace on his chin. Gimli greeted both brothers enthusiastically, happy to see them again and was allowed to help around the smithy as far as he already could. He mostly helped Fili, who allowed him a grand-brotherly manner certainly practiced on Kili in years past.

 

Kili used a tong to turn three different iron rods in the fire, then securing their ends within one tong that seemed nearly too large for him to handle. He made a face, but his brother was busy with own work.

 

“Need someone to hold that?” Boromir asked, he knew not much of their skill but Kili had declared him fit to hold the heavy tongue in the past.

 

“Gladly,” Kili waved him over, pointing him to take the tongue to keep the intertwined three red hot iron rods still on the anvil. “I will need both arms for the hammer.”

 

“I heard you brought back real gold from your trip,” Gimli said excitedly, when he joined Fili on the other anvil. “not just some iron but gold. True treasure.”

 

Kili had twisted the three glowing iron and steel rods together tightly, so tight Boromir had found it hard to hold them still. The young dwarf brought his hammer down on the braid of steel and iron beginning to hammer it flat. “This,” he said between two powerful strokes. “this the true treasure of Eriador. Iron. Only most people are too stupid to make good steel from it. Gold is a lesser metal, Gimli,” another set of hits made the whole braid of twisted metal into a flat form. “it can’t be made into tools, nor weapons. It is dark. The blacksmith’s curse is welded on gold and written in coin.” His breath heaved when the whole piece was flat and he put it back on the fire pit for heating it up again, adding a fourth rod that had taken longer to reach full heat.

 

“But gold is the better coin,” Gimli insisted. “And it makes people rich. Father often speaks of the treasures of old.”

 

Kili twisted the flat piece with the white hot blacksteel rod, looking at Boromir. “Ready for another round?”

 

The warrior gave him an encouraging nod. It took all his strength to keep this thing still, but watching held its own rewards. Boromir had always been fascinated by the art of making weapons, and had sometimes watched when Kili worked in the spellforge of Moria. But this here was of a different fascination, Kili worked with a fire and a passion for his craft that seemed to spark its own magic at times, unafraid of the flame with the glowing metal reflecting in his dark eyes.

 

“What is rich?” Kili asked the younger dwarf, while he began the process to hammer the twisted piece flat again. “When they bury Daz that old merchant, people will come and pay their respects at his grave, out of respect for such a successful trader. When they bury Bofur down from Deeproads crossing his friends will be there and they will weep, not because he was rich, but because he was their friend and they will miss him. Who would you rather be?”

 

“You always get irritable when it comes to that.” Gimli said, it was clear that he did not want to argue with his two big friends but that it was a topic where he did not understand them. “Being rich is nothing bad is it?”

 

“No, it isn’t.” Kili gave in to not upset his younger friend. “But there are other blessings. I’d rather be free, even if I am a wanderer, than being rich in coin and having to live in one of those cages they call villages.” He had completed the process three times now, and nodded at Boromir. “Thank you, I can take it from here.” He took the glowing end of the raw form with a lighter tong as he began to work a blade from the steel.

 

Leaning against one of the beams that supported the workshop, Boromir watched him, the red fire casting warm lights of Kili’s youthful face, eyes shining brightly as he worked on the blade of his anvil. There was no temptation of greed in him, what he had just said; it was what he had lived in later life. Why had the curse of gold to affect him of all people? It gave Boromir hope that he could save Kili from the curse, that Durin’s Bane could be broken, but seeing him like this made the memory hurt all the more.

 

“Boromir?” Kili had put the blade back on the coalrack, putting aside the hammer. “Are you alright?”

 

“Yes, why do you ask?” Boromir could read worry in Kili’s eyes and feel it in the bond.

 

“You were so sad all at once, like something drowning you in pain.” The young dwarf replied, walking up to him. “If… if it is this place… you don’t have to stay here all day.”

 

“No, it was nothing. Just a memory.” Boromir said, focusing on Kili here, on their friendship, on good thoughts to calm the bond. It had never been so intense before, but maybe it did not have yet the time to settle properly. “I like being around your forge.”

 

During the late afternoon, Fili had finished a number of axe blades, while Kili’s work was shaping up to a fine longsword, they were interrupted by another dwarf. He had the same red hair like Gimli and his clothes left little doubt he was a very well to do dwarf. Gloin greeted his son with a clap on the shoulder, pointing him to stay working. “Your mother is still over with Grís,” he said. “I owe her thanks for being there for her like that. There are few that understand like that.” He cast an approving glance on Fili’s work. “I hear you two had some adventures up North this winter.”

 

“None that bear repeating, Gloin,” Kili replied. “just the usual, Orcs, villages and the odd troll in between.” He did not mean it unfriendly, he actually liked the other dwarf, but their story was nothing to spread before all and everyone.  At least not until Uncle had heard of it.

 

“Lad, that sword looks mighty fine,” Gloin appraised the work he saw. “Black steel with two layers of iron and one of moonsteel; that will be quite the blade. Where has that lad gone that would hate doing the welding?”

 

“He grew up,” Kili replied. “first he worked for his Uncle in the forge until he wished he could run away with the travelling people and then the fire found him and he grew to love the work.” He thrust the blade into the water barrel to finally cool it down, his right arm exposed in the dim light of the forge.

 

“Lad, what is that?” Gloin stepped closer, actually getting ahold of Kili’s wrist to see the mark more closely.

 

With one fluid move Kili yanked it free. “That’s a long story, Gloin.”

 

The dwarf’s shrewd eyes went from Kili to Boromir, and it was easy to see that he made the right connections quickly. “Forgive me, Kili,” he said more formally. “I did not mean to presume. But this is sign, Óin was sure it would come. But to have it appear so close… of course it would be someone from your noble house.”

 

Now Kili looked at him perplex. “Gloin, what do you speak of?” he put aside the tools as the blade needed to cool fully before he could continue.

 

“Lad… Kili,” Gloin audibly tried to not fall back on talking to him like to one of the boys. “this is better explained by my brother, he knows the signs as none other can. Would you come to Wyldfire Hall tonight, with your brother and your...” he looked to Boromir. “man-at-arms,” he decided on a term. “to hear what Óin has to say? I will have Balin there too, if you’d like that.”

 

The whole speech made Kili uneasy, Gloin had always been a friend of the family, a distant relative and he usually treated Kili much like a youth, a distant nephew, but suddenly he had reverted to treating him like a young warrior, even more towards his birth rank, the offer to invite Balin if Kili so wished was all but unheard off. “I would appreciate it if Balin could join us in that discussion,” Kili replied, speaking the way his Uncle had taught him to.

 

“Then I’ll arrange everything.” Gloin walked off with the air of a man about to get busy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was amazing again, helping me to untangle so many plot chaos. You rock, my friend.
> 
> The metal twisting/welding technique - it is one of the techniques that is often inaccurately ascribed as “to damascene” but actually and at least according to the books sitting all around me, is older and more varied than often assume. I am not an expert on bladesmithing, though.


	6. The lesser sadness

Wyldfire Hall was situated in the upper reaches of the broken city, where mostly traders and merchants had made their homes, along with a few lapidaries and other trades that did not produce fumes nor rely on heat and fire too much. The scribes too had their place there. Kili walked up the road, glad to have his brother and Boromir with him, for whatever Óin would have to say. The young dwarf had washed and changed into a clean tunic, he had resisted his brother’s suggestion he braid his hair, he would wait for the braids until he had something to say with them, something that meant more than just status.

 

Gloin greeted them at the door of the hall. “Kili, Fili, I am glad you came.” He spared a nod for Boromir, having decided the man was something of a trusted guard or warrior. “I apologize for Grís not being able to greet you.” It would have been customary for the Mistress of the Hall to greet the guests.

 

Kili bowed lightly, in response to the greeting. “We have heard of the ill that befell the Mistress of your Halls, Gloin. Would you give her this with our well wishes, when the time is right?” He asked, handing something small to the older dwarf.

 

Gloin was not surprised to see that it was a light crystal Kili gave him; it was a traditional gift for someone who had suffered a grave loss. Especially the Mistress of a home was rewarded every courtesy in such times. As those crystals were always cut by the hand of the giver, made them each unique and special. Being a subterranean race Dwarves held light in very emotional regard, it was a thoughtful and surprisingly adult gesture. Two years ago Kili still might have brought honeyed cakes or something similar, like a boy would. But he had grown beyond that and the warmly shining crystal was delicately shaped into a form of a winter lily.

 

“She will be delighted to see it,” Gloin replied, stepping aside to invite the three to come in. He led them to a comfortable room on the lower level of the hall. A bright fire was warming the room, Balin and Óin sitting there discussing matters of trade with the elves in Lindon. Gloin held back for a moment, allowing the brothers to greet Balin in as near private as was possible.

 

The old dwarf greeted both of them warmly, being so close to Thorin’s family; he had seen the boys grow up in Stormwyrd Hall and was something of an honorary Uncle to them. He shook his head when Kili thanked him for coming. “Don’t mention it, lad. I too want to hear what bee crawled up Óin’s ear trumpet and died there.”

 

Gloin coughed hiding a laugh at his brother’s expense, but luckily he was distracted by Gimli coming to greet his friends as well. Making a stern mien, the father waited for the greetings being over before he harrumphed. “Now Gimli, go and see to your mother. This is adult talking we have to do.”

 

The young redhead looked at him exasperated. “But you have Kili and Fili here, father…”

 

“And they are all grown up, my boy. Off you go.” The young dwarf trotted off with a mien that bespoke all the injustices of the world.

 

When the door closed behind Gimli Balin turned to Gloin. “What is this about, Gloin? You never involved Thorin’s nephews into serious business before. You better have good reasons.”

 

The older redhead pointed them to all sit. “I know, I’ve been a bit guilty of ignoring that Kili passed into adulthood a few years ago,” he said to everyone’s surprise. “and my mumbling about your brother seconding him when he went against his Wargrider was not fair either, others do that all the time.”

 

Now he had gained Balin’s undivided attention. “Not to remind you the hundredths time that it was an entire Warg pack not a single warg,” the old dwarf said. “You better start telling us why you brought them here.” The old dwarf was clearly suspicious now.

 

“Aye,” Gloin replied, not taking up the argument. He had always known that it had been a Warg pack and that no young dwarf in his testing should go up against a group like this. But that Dwalin, who never bothered to second for anyone, not even distant family, but would do it for Thorin’s youngest had rankled a bit. But that was all past now and unimportant. “Kili, may I ask you to show the mark to Óin and Balin?” he asked politely.

 

Hesitantly Kili looked to his brother, shy to reveal the mark. Fili put an encouraging hand on his shoulder, while both of them looked to Boromir, whom this mark concerned as much as them. The warrior gave a small nod in response. Kili pushed back the sleeve of his green tunic and revealed his swordarm to both older dwarves. “Mahal’s mercy!” Óin exclaimed, seeing the red glowing dragon shine on the young warrior’s arm. “Let me see it closer, please.”

 

Obligingly Kili leaned forward so the old healer could examine the mark. Gently the old dwarf traced his fingers over the mark, seeing at once it was neither tattoo nor brand, he had a hard time to not jump when he felt movement under his fingers, like warm scales slithering under the very skin. “I… I can’t believe it,” Óin tried to find the right words, visibly shaken. “When I saw the signs were there, I hoped… but to see this happen in my lifetime…”

 

“It is an Oath Mark, I know as much,” Kili said in friendly tones, he felt a bit embarrassed that the old dwarf would be so shaken by this. “It appeared when Boromir saved me from an Orc.”

 

“An Oath Mark!” Óin snorted. “It may be this too, but it is much more. Kili… young Prince… this seal... it is the seal of the Dragonsbane. The Ravens are returning to the Lonely Mountain and you have been marked by Dragonbane’s seal… you are the one who will destroy the beast.”

 

Standing with his back to the wall by the door Boromir had watched their conversation, but when Óin announced his oracle he had a hard time to not gasp. How could they read something like that into the mark? It had come from the magic released from the Dragon’s tooth in Kili’s sword… and that had been the very dragon they were talking about. “How can you be sure?” the words were out before he could stop them.

 

Gloin turned to Boromir somewhat annoyed. “I do not think you know much of these things.” He began but Kili stopped him, by asking Boromir with a gesture to join them.

 

“I value Boromir’s advice, Gloin.” He said firmly, when the warrior joined them, Kili nudged him to sit down to his left. “Could you..?” he asked, his eyes pointing towards Boromir’s arm.

 

Removing the bracer Boromir extended his arm beside Kili’s, both dragons were facing each other and in the close distance, both suddenly moved, like drawn to each other.

 

Óin jumped nearly dropping his eartrumpet. “You truly are bound by the seal… like the old legends tell,” he said, now understanding why the human warrior was with them.

 

 “And… are you really sure? It could mean something else entirely.” Kili asked, still feeling overwhelmed by all this.

 

“No, laddie,” Balin sighed deeply, a sad and unhappy expression on his face. “This is the exact mark of the Dragonsbane. It is alive inside you, is it not? Even we, who can only touch it from the outside feel the fire right there, inside the mark, I wish I could say it was all a mistake, but this… this is real.”

 

Pulling down the sleeve to hide the mark, Kili sat down again, his head was spinning. They could not believe he was some kind of hero? A dragonslayer? Suddenly he felt Fili’s hand reassuringly on his shoulder. “We will be with you, all the way.” The blond dwarf told him. “You won’t have to do this alone.”

 

Kili had never been more grateful for his brother’s presence, for his support. “Still… Erebor is on the other side of the world, no one has been inside that mountain is almost 150 years.”

 

“Your Uncle has been talking about calling those who are willing to fight and retake Erebor,” Gloin said thoughtfully. “There are a few still would be willing to follow him back to the Mountain and more will come…”

 

“And he forbade you to speak of this to his nephews.” A voice startled them from the door of the room, where Gimli had led another guest inside. The dwarf standing there gave Gloin a stare that made even the redheaded dwarf take a step back. “I told you not to involve my nephews in this; they are too young to even consider taking such a risk.”

 

“And I agreed with you,” Gloin was not easily dissuaded. “Until I saw the sign, it changes everything. Thorin, long have we waited for a sign of hope and now that it is there, do we dare to hesitate?”

 

By now everyone in the room stood, facing the dwarf standing by the door. His presence easily commanded everyone in the room. “What sign?” he asked, the anger in his voice not abating. “What gives you the right to go against my express wishes in this matter?”

 

Balin pushed past Gloin approaching Thorin. “He should have come to you first, aye,” he said in his calm voice. “But… he is not entirely wrong either.”

 

The old dwarf’s words had an immediate effect on the dwarven leader, while his temper was still hot, he visibly reined it in when speaking to the older dwarf. “Balin? What is this talk of a sign? You rarely believe in those.”

 

The greybearded warrior looked chastised. “Age makes fools more easily than wise men, it seems.” He admitted. “And over the years I may have forgotten that I was walking in the presence of Durin’s blood.” It was not an apology, but an honest admission. His glance to Kili was enough to bring the young dwarf to his side. “Show him please.”

 

Kili again revealed the dragonmark on his arm, the fiery seal alive on his skin. Thorin’s examination was much quicker than that over the others. “You were smart to hide this, Kili.” He said to the young dwarf. “It is not something to be announced lightly.” His eyes went back to Gloin and Óin, his anger now clearly excluding Balin. “It is not for you to decide what to do about this.” With that he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, back whence he had come just minutes ago.

 

“I better go after him,” Kili said to Balin. “I should have told him before any others heard.” And he followed Thorin out of the house.

 

ADL

 

Until Gloin had said the name Boromir had not known who it was, but he had been able to guess. Back in his old life he had heard more than once how old dwarves swore that Kili was very similar to his Uncle and Boromir had to agree. The older Kili had looked much like his kingly Uncle, only that while Kili had always been approachable, even when his temper was woken, Thorin had an inapproachable demeanor, an aura of strength and majesty that kept everyone else at a distance. And he certainly had the family temper to match.

 

“Boromir?” Fili had joined him. “we better leave too. I’d like to talk to you.” Together they bade their goodbyes from Gloin and went back out into the darkened streets of the city.

 

“Will Gloin be in trouble?” Boromir asked. “Your Uncle’s anger is rather impressive.”

 

The young dwarf chuckled. “No. Gloin is half a firebeard, that’s why they clash so well. Uncle may be angry, and not spare sharp words, but he is never truly unjust. It was simply a bad way for him to find out. He has always protected us, and he hates to see us in danger.” Fili explained warmth in his voice. They went back to Stormwyrd hall, but Fili led Boromir to the very rim of the pinnacle, to a place where one could sit right by the chasm. “This is a good place to talk.”

 

Sitting down on stones, ignoring the gaping abyss beside him, Boromir studied the dwarf opposite of him. Fili was a down to earth, steadfast man, and if he could not say something directly, he usually did not say anything at all. This was unusual. “You are worried about Kili,” he observed.

 

“Obviously,” Fili met his eyes. “Kili was always special, he is a son of thunder, and that alone is enough to herald an extraordinary life. But the mark… it is a spark of destiny that may easily become a bonfire to consume him. Others will expect him to turn into a new Frérin Dragonsbane almost immediately.” And most of these heroes had found tragic ends, if the old stories were true. “He will need friends with him, people he can rely on, who will stand with him even when… when it gets so dark and dangerous that they’d like to run. I know you care a lot for my brother, and you are a good friend, Boromir, I’d like you with me on this.”

 

Amazed Boromir looked at the young dwarf warrior, how much strength did it take him to step back and let his younger brother embrace his destiny? How many brothers would be jealous or angry, belittle what happened? There was nothing of that in Fili, he would protect and shield his brother right to the end. A hard lump grew in Boromir’s throat, remembering what he knew of Fili’s death. _Had to be me… I am the Eldest_. Only once Kili had repeated these words to him, a century after his brother had died to a day, and he had broken down in tears when he had said those words. Here and now Boromir could all too easily see how it would happen, Fili would protect his brother to the last, always there, always at his shoulder, never truly recognized but not caring either way. And he would die for him. No, maybe not this time, Arwen may have warned him against meddling with the fate of the world, but he could try to save another life.

 

“Boromir?” Fili had squatted down beside him. “You are so pale, like you just saw a wraith…”

 

“No… you only reminded me of my brother,” Boromir said softly. “he too was called. He had this prophetic dream, and he should have pursued it. But I decided I would do it instead, because I was the stronger one… it nearly went awry and I was very lucky to be saved in the end. I wonder if I stole his destiny…”

 

“You most certainly didn’t. It is hard to stand by and watch your brother walk into danger, to know you can’t change it, you can’t go for him… it’s ripping me apart, Boromir. I’d gladly go up against Smaug if I could spare Kili… no dragonslayer ever survived his heroics unscathed, if alive at all.”

 

The two warriors’ eyes met. “Then let us make sure Kili is the first who does.” Boromir said. A warrior’s clasp between them sealed their pact.

 

ADL

 

Hastening down the street Kili did not find his Uncle, wherever Thorin had turned he had not kept to the main road and he knew this city better than anyone. Where would he have gone? “Kili, thank Mahal I've found you.” A familiar voice interrupted his train of thought. Dis stood behind him, having just come from Wyldfire hall herself. “Come with me.” He words bore no contradiction; she walked off towards Stormwyrd Hall, expecting Kili to follow.

 

Dis chose one of the rooms adjacent to the main smithy for their talk, the small workshop was her refuge, her private sanctuary and it also held the few mementos she retained from her husband. This night, she felt she would need his strength, his presence, like never before. Even if all that remained of him was a small stone statuette and his broken axe mounted on the wall. Like always when she thought of her husband Dis hands went to the two steel clasps she wore in her braids. Dari had made them for her. Taking a deep breath she turned to Kili. “I want you to understand that under any other circumstances we would not have this conversation.” She said firmly. “I am loath to do what I do now, but with all that is happening I feel it cannot be put off any longer.”

 

“What is it, mother?” Kili asked. “This mark… does it come from some old family obligation? Life debt?”

 

He was much like the family in that regards, go and tackle the problem, always forgetting to check how big the problem actually was. “No.” she said. “It has nothing to do with the mark but the mark is the reason why I speak to you now. Until now you were satisfied to take second place to Fili, in the family hierarchy and in your Uncle’s regard and I abided by my brother’s wishes to leave it at that.”

 

“It is only right, Fili is the eldest brother, of course he is…”

 

Dis raised her hand. “You believe that, because it is what you were told all your life, because that’s what Fili was told too. He thinks he saw you born and he was close by, but he did not see what truly happened.” The dwarven Princess rubbed her hands against her arms. “My daughter died that night, Kili. I had a girl child and a Dunlending arrow took her life not an hour after her birth.” She shivered, in her heart she could still hear the thunder rolling, the Dunlending battle cries echo over the storm, Dari and Dwalin trying to push back the attackers, hopelessly outnumbered and fighting like wounded lions. “I was not the only woman having gone into labour at such an ill time. Ida was ready to give birth too, we had joked that our children would be born in the same hour. Cousins born like twins should.”

 

“Cousins… I… I am not your child?” Kili asked, his eyes wide in shock.

 

Dis heart clenched, in the wide dark eyes she could see Ida’s eyes, and like she had seen her seventy-five years ago as the woman screamed her agony into the cold uncaring night. “No, you were born to Ida; she was from a noble family of the northern dwarves, a good shot of black dwarf blood in that line too. But your father… Kili, Ida had lain with Thorin,”

 

Kili gasped, shocked, clear and utter disbelief on his face as he stepped away from her, closing the distance between him and the door. “You lie…” he whispered as he continued his retreat, eyes falling to the floor and he shook his head. “It can’t be true…” His back found the wall, to give him hold.

 

“I would never think of lying about such a thing.” Dis told him firmly, he had to face the truth and she expected him to do it the way he had been raised to. “Thorin intended to marry her once we were out of that wretched land.” Again the memories returned and Dis heard the thunder clash, and Ida scream as the arrow penetrated her chest. “An arrow hit her chest,” she whispered. “she was so strong, she pushed you out of her body with her dying strength…” Tears stung Dis eyes, remembering the brave dying dwarf, dying the same moment the lightning bold struck the trees setting the forest aflame.

 

She pulled it together, she had to stay strong, a daughter of Durin’s blood did not break down like a weeping peasant girl. “She was dead the moment you were born, much like my little daughter was dead and Auda, the midwife. Dwalin bundled you and me on Dari’s pony sending us off into the night, while he and Dari covered our flight. When we found each other again a week after, Dari had rescued Fili and I had taken care of you…” Dis sighed. “Thorin was far away, and while I knew that he and Ida had been improper, I did not know for sure…”

 

“Is this some kind of cruel joke?” Kili asked sharply, hurt and anger warring in his eyes. “If it is, it is in very poor taste.”

 

“No!” Dis snapped. “I could never cause you such pain in jest! You are my brother’s child, Thorin later confirmed it himself, but he did not wish it to be known. He loved both of you as his own children, even when you were not, and after Dari died the next year, he decided to leave things at that. Dari had agreed to give you his name either way and… Thorin felt it was the best this way.”

 

For a moment, Kili remained silent, trying to understand what it was he was being told. Was his whole life just a lie? Was his entire existence some story that those he had trusted fed him? How could they do such a thing? Did they have any idea how much pain it would cause him? Cause Fili? How could something as small as a mark on the flesh make it acceptable for this to happen?

 

“Kili?” Dis asked, reaching out towards him.

 

“Don’t touch me!” Kili cried, batting the hand away. “You are a liar! A liar and a thief! You are stealing away Fili’s birth right, and all because of some strange fate? How could you do that to him? To us!”

 

He was so very similar to her family, Dis thought grimly. He had all the temper, fire and rage that ruled her bloodline, so unlike Fili who had Dari’s gentleness and his generosity. “It would be stealing _your_ birthright,” she said trying to keep her composure. “You are Thorin’s son, and thus you should be his heir. Much as he might prefer Fili, fate has different plans and Dari would never have allowed his house be dishonored by subverting the true heir’s rights.” It was clear Dis was less than pleased, but her anger and pain did not allow for any gentle words. Kili was of her line, he would have to learn to take it, Durin’s blood did not tolerate weakness. The door clapped hard, as Kili stormed out of the room.

 

ADL

 

Thorin stood alone in the silence of Stormwyrd Hall, trying to calm his restless mind. It was so like Gloin and Óin to jump on things without looking. No, he could not blame them. Many a long year when he had wrought iron, crafting weapons and armor he had longed for a way to win back Erebor. It had been a dream, hardly achievable, and his mind had gone over alliances and plans so often that it had driven him nearly mad at times. His people deserved better than living in these ruins and wander the world in search of paying work, scorned by men, homeless and subject to the whim of any Master they came across.

 

When Thorin had happened to meet Gandalf the Grey the past summer, he had found something like hope again, a glimmer of it at least. The wizard’s support might be what turned fortunes in their favor, but what he knew of the wizard’s plan did not entirely convince him. He was loath to risk the lives of his loyal friends on such a vague plan. But what other options did he have?

 

And now this. How long had he hoped, dreamed that fate would send them another Frérin Dragonsbane, or Alberic Stonebow, someone who had a hope to defeat the dragon. But luck was the one thing Durin’s folk was scarcer of than gold even these days. Mahal… here was the answer to all his hopes and dreams and he could wish for nothing more than to never have wished for such a miracle.

 

Why Kili of all people? Of course with this turn of events the venture he was planning would be less dependent on Gandalf and his aid. Thorin was loath to rely on the wizard too much, or to be in his debt. He’d rather rely on his own blood, his own house. In that way he should be overjoyed, but he hated himself for even considering it in this light. Thorin was not blind to the fates of the legendary dragonslayers and heroes, nearly none of them had lived to a ripe old age, many had ended up cursed, broken, paying a terrible price for saving their people. They were all the more revered for doing so, because of this price they paid. Fate always demanded something for such mercy. But why in this way? “Damn you,” he growled, his fist hitting the wall. “if you want your price, your pound of flesh, take me.”

 

 _Fate does not ask if you like what she packs on your shoulders; she only demands that you bear it proudly._ Thorin bit his lip; the words belonged to a friend, long dead, a brother and comrade, another loyal man who had died for him. Dari had been bleeding out in his arms, the words maybe not have even been directed him, but Thorin had never forgotten.

 

Suddenly the door behind him flew open and Kili strode in, wild hair flying behind him, long strides and a demeanor like he wanted to gut someone, there was no mistaking that he was upset and angry. "Uncle, I fear mother is ill. She is not speaking sense. She is denying her own son his birth right and proclaiming that I am not her child! But these are surely the words of a deluded mind. She must be wrong. Isn't she Uncle?"

 

What had compelled Dis to break her silence? Thorin wondered, but he knew the answer. They both had been raised by a stern father, a man who had instilled their duty to Durin’s line, to their house, into them from the time they could understand what he said. She had never been happy with Thorin’s decisions and now had acted on it. "What did she tell you?" he asked, wanting to hear it more clearly. How much had Dis said?

 

Kili froze in the middle of his pacing, a hurt expression in his dark eyes. "So it's true..." he whispered, a cold hand running down his spine, he could see how his Uncle had evaded the question.

 

“What is true?” Thorin asked slightly impatient, why had Dis chosen such an ill time to speak of old family secrets?

 

“Ida,” Kili spoke the name with a wealth of emotion in his voice much that he tried to conceal it.

 

The name confirmed all Thorin had feared. He turned away from his nephew, unable to bear that glance of the dark eyes any longer, eyes that would always remind him of the one person he had loved more than life itself. “I never thought I would hear her name spoken by your voice.”

 

Kili stared at the floor, ears ringing with the sound of his racing heart as he tried to keep his breathing under control. “She was… I’m…” He couldn’t say it. No matter how hard he tried, the words refused to pass his lips. “My life is a lie.”

 

“No!” Thorin exclaimed, stepping closer to the boy. “How could you even say that? Does it matter if I were your father or Uncle? Does it change what we are? That we are family?”

 

“But why?” Kili asked distressed. “If it didn’t matter, then why would you keep this from me? Why keep this a secret, only to reveal it now, of all times?” His distress echoing deeply into the bond, startling Boromir and Fili outside the building.

 

He had a right to ask that, of course, Thorin thought. With the only family he had ever known suddenly ripped apart, he deserved the truth. “Because I would not bring dishonor to Ida’s name,” he explained. “I should have bonded with her the moment I learned she was with child. I was prevented when my father insisted on waiting after the child was born to be sure. But when she died… I would not let her name be besmirched by having it known she had born my child unbonded. Honor demanded nothing less, and Dari, like always, was a generous friend and accepted you as his own.”

 

“So the honour of a dead woman was more important to you than your own child?” Kili asked, his hate filled eyes turning to face his ‘Uncle’. “But what about my father? Dari… you always said that the mourning for the dead must never come before the care of the living.”

 

Thorin bit back a retort, the words Kili was saying like arrows to the heart as he spoke of his mother with such disdain, such hatred… “Your mother was like the air I breathed. I could never bring her dishonor. It would have been like tearing out my own lungs. But my sister… When Dis lost her child in that attack, it was like she had lost a part of herself. By the time I had returned, finding… She was whole again with you in her arms. You could not have asked me to destroy that peace she found.”

 

Blinking, the heat that had filled Kili’s chest began to drain away, and all he could feel was an empty hollowness. “Then why change anything?” He asked desperately. “We tell mother not to say a word and we never speak of it again. Never. Will we?.... Will we, Uncle?”

 

“No.” It was not Thorin who had given this answer, but Fili, standing in the door of the hall. The blond warrior was pale, his eyes wet from unshed tears, but his face bore an accepting smile. Walking into the room, he approached his distressed brother, drawing him into a short hug. “We cannot lie about this any longer, Kili.” He clasped Kili’s shoulders with both hands, making the younger one look at him. “I would not want this lie to exist one moment longer than was necessary.” Fili said fiercely. “you are my cousin, and my Prince… doing anything else would be the worst kind of betrayal.”

 

“No… no, No!” Kili in turn grabbed Fili’s shoulders, drawing him close, so their forehead’s touched. “No. You are my brother, and you always will be my brother. Nothing will ever change that, not in this world or the next. Mahal smite me if I am untrue.” He vowed his voice hoarse with emotion.

 

Thorin watched the brothers embrace, so very proud of Fili. The older brother had always been sensible, a protector, fiercely loyal. So much like Dari in looks and spirit, it sometimes tore Thorin’s heart to see it. Dari’s friendship had been a gift during the darkest time of Thorin’s life and watching Fili grow up had been much like watching Dari’s youth unfold before his eyes. He was so proud of how Fili took all this in a stride, accepting that Kili would be the heir and Prince of Durin’s blood, without the slightest jealousy. All the more Thorin wished it had not been necessary, deep down he wished Fili could remain his heir. But it was not to be. At least Kili had the sense to not let go of his brother.

 

With a heavy heart the dwarven king approached his son and nephew to hug them both, what lay ahead of them all still weighed heavily on his mind, but for this moment he pushed it aside. Gently he coaxed both boys to look at him. “I will have it formally announced that Kili is my son before we leave,” he said to them. “and I will have it announced also that I am adopting Fili as my second son.” Dis would not be happy about that, but Thorin knew if Dari could still be with them, he would understand.

 

Boromir had quietly retreated back out of the room, giving the three dwarves some space; he felt enough of what happened through the bond, where Kili’s stormy emotions echoed his inner turmoil. The revelation shocked the warrior deeply, and it reminded him of an autumn day in Eriador and of Bolg. Kili unda Thorin the Orc had called him. What secret had the monster been aware of? Had Kili known? Or had he never learned this truth? Had Dàin in truth cheated Thorin’s only son out of his legacy? Another wave of emotions washed over him, he closed his eyes and let it pass, knowing that Kili’s heart was torn by what he just had learned. Inwardly Boromir resolved that while he was here to protect Kili from the curse, he would try all he could to save his family. Changing the fate of a house was not unheard of, or so Arwen had said. He had no idea how he could do this yet, but he would try with all he had.

 

ADL

 

Midnight found Kili again in the forge, the fire brightly ablaze, working on the sword. While the long conversation with Thorin and Fili had helped to calm his anger, it could not calm his stormy soul entirely. Too much had happened and a part of him still felt like he was losing Fili. No, he would not. Fili was his brother and to the Gate of Night with anyone who said otherwise. His hammer rang on the anvil like a bell out of the deep and fire flared, echoing the emotions the young dwarven smith felt.

 

As his anger burned brighter the flames in the rack rose too, he paid no heed, when he needed the blade hot, it remained precisely at the point he needed it to be.

 

The legends of old said that each arcane smith has a well inside him, hidden by a veil deep inside the soul. All stories of old warned to not reach for that well, because it was dangerous to push so far, the flame kindled from it might not be quenched and consume the crafter. In the dark hours alone in the forge Kili found that well opening up for him and he fearlessly reached beyond the veil for it. It felt like snow on fire, like a cold river on a heated summer’s morning, like ice pouring on the flaming anger inside him. All that cold went into his work along with the flame burning inside him so brightly.

 

When the last hit of his hammer rang out on the finished sword, Kili took his own knife, cutting his arm open right under the dragon mark, the blood touching the hot blade, and the water in the barrel before Kili put the still glowing sword in. He could feel that the water alone could not cool the blade anymore, it needed to drink the blood to become cold.

 

But the flame in Kili had not yet burned out, the fire still blazed brightly. Putting the finished sword on the empty bench to the side, Kili took another set of iron rods and set to work again. His mind did not know where to go, but his heart, the fire inside him knew. As the night moved on, the black steel shaped into a second blade, shorter, edgier but strong, he had to cool and reheat it three times, the last time in the hour of the dawn that would never come to the caves below this broken mountain.

 

When he put the blade in to the barrel the last time, the water hissed and seethed, but the blade cooled. Behind him the fire in the forge winked out, like the last of its fuel burned. Kili stumbled, dropping to his knees as a wave of exhaustion hit him, the fire inside him burned to ashes. He heaved a slow sigh, bodily exhausted but his spirit rising. Through the bond he felt Boromir’s steady, comforting presence and while he wished he could sense Fili the same way, he knew he did not need to, to know his brother was close. Pulling himself to his feet, he managed to stand without shaking. He was calm now, the storm in his soul passed, all the fire passed into the two blades resting on the anvil.

 

He went over to the fresh water bucket to wash up; the work had left him all sooty. When he finally was done and had untangled his dark hair again, he actually stopped after combing them through. Taking up a few front streaks he braided them into a fine familial braid of four strands, indicating a man with a blood brother and a heart brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to Harrylee94 who all but co-authored this chapter and helped me to write so much emo. Thanks my friend!
> 
> Lapidary = Gem-cutter


	7. The plans of a wizard

The first week of April found Boromir, Kili and Fili on the road near the borders of the Shire, waiting for word on how to proceed. In all honesty Boromir had been glad to leave Cardemir behind. With Thorin’s announcement regarding Kili’s status and the adoption of Fili the whole dwarven community had become a humming bee swarm, full of gossip and stings. He had believed he knew dwarven society well enough, but those he had seen in Moria had been different, maybe time and eighty years of Kili’s unconventional leadership had changed things by then. Cardemir had been buzzing with rumors, talk and expectations in tradition s that went back all the way to Durin I. Things had been tense and Kili had been short of snapping at nearly anyone a couple of time, especially when elder dwarves reminded him of tradition left, right and centre.

 

And when poor Gimli had asked if Fili would swear fealty to the new Prince, Kili had nearly bitten his head off. Boromir had seen that the young dwarf was just excited and deeply disappointed that he was still too young to be considered for such an honor.

 

At least Thorin had decided to keep the dragonmark a secret for now; those few who knew about it were to keep their silence, a wise and brave decision.

 

Still the whole situation had left Kili tense, he hated the role he was suddenly assigned, much as he did all he could not to disappoint Thorin. The forge had been his refuge. Whenever things got too much he’d retreat there to work. The evening before they had left the Ered Luin, Kili had pulled both Fili and Boromir into the smithy that was still warm from the day’s workings. Two swords had rested on the anvil. Well familiar with dwarven tradition by now Boromir knew that a weapon was a traditional gift for a new follower, sometimes even standing in lieu of a formal oath, he had not been surprised that Dis had send her son to work in the forge right after their return. And most dwarves in the city expected some gesture of acceptance from Fili towards Thorin’s chosen heir.

 

Much as the dwarves of this city should know Kili, their expectations were shaped by tradition and they never even thought that Kili might not share they ideas. “I know what the people of this city expect,” the young dwarf had said with a grim mien, which so much had reminded Boromir of other days. “and I will not have it. You and I, we are brothers, we belong together, and they have no say in this. I have one brother of blood,” He had smiled and reached for Fili's shoulder. “and one of the heart, of choice,” he had reached for Boromir’s arm, the two were the anchor Kili had in this whirlwind of fate. “and I made these for you, not for oaths or stupid traditions, but because you are my brothers.”

 

Fili had reacted with all his natural affinity for his younger brother and hugged him. “You should have made one for yourself too.” He pointed out.

 

“I am an archer, big brother, I keep some distance to the enemy, and I don’t have the faintest idea about making bows.” Kili had replied, relaxing a little.  

 

Boromir had never seen Kili so _sly_ before, everyone who saw the weapons would assume that the formalities had been taken care of, and leave them alone from now on. He had felt Fili’s glance and they had found themselves in silent agreement. Kili was not in any state to deal with oaths and loyalties right now, not with the quest ahead of them and Thorin’s demands on him. So they’d silently hold to that vow until the Kili was ready to hear them properly.

 

“Boromir!” Kili nudged him. “Gandalf send word, we are to be in Hobbiton by nightfall. He has found us a burglar.” Travelling and the quest itself had helped Kili a lot to find his inner calm again, but there was a change in him still, that echoed deeply in their bond.

 

“Hobbiton, that’s somewhere in the heart of the Shire,” Boromir observed mounting his horse. “will the others come too?” He had heard several recounting of the famous unexpected party at Bag-End, Kili had told him about it and so had Frodo on one early evening during their march across Hollin. Everyone, the Halfling included, seemed to hold this party in fond memory.

 

“We should be there around nightfall,” Kili said as their horses began to trot. “What has you smiling like that? You seem almost excited.”

 

He was right, only here and now the reality of it had hit Boromir. He had heard the story of the thirteen brave to reclaim their homeland several times, most memorably in the night before the Black Gates. It was a story he had always found inspiring and touching, thirteen brave going against a dragon. Only now he saw that curse or no curse, if he had been asked, he’d have gladly joined them, because of the ties of friendship that tied him to the two brothers. “I am just happy to be on a task again,” he said to Kili. “Did your father tell you who will be coming?”

 

“Some of it,” Kili replied. “Balin, Gloin and Óin obviously; Dwalin should be there too, Bofur, along with his brother Bombur and their cousin Bifur, they volunteered when they heard we were going. Dori and Nori as well, I do not know what he did decide in regards of Ori, though.”

 

“What speaks against him?” Boromir asked, he had never met any of these three. Ori had died in Moria, Dori had died of natural causes some time before and Nori had vanished even before never to be heard from again.

 

“Can’t fight,” Fili said. “he never learned to use a sword or axe, and he is even younger than Kili. I doubt he passed his adulthood trial yet. Thorin won’t take someone who can’t defend himself with some manner of efficiency.”

 

“He might respect his courage and take him anyway.” Kili pointed out. “Ori has a good heart and is a good scribe.”

 

“And he can’t carve up an Orc if it stood still long enough.” Fili shook his blond mane. “I doubt the Orcs will shake in fear of a scribe’s feather.”

 

“How could they, if they can't read one word of what those feathers put to paper?” Boromir teased the older brother lightly. “Sometimes people have skills and qualities that don’t show on first glance.”

 

They rode through the Shire, a land Boromir had heard much of but never had seen with his own eyes. It reminded him of the things the little ones had talked of during their journey. It was astonishing that in the middle of the chaos that Eriador was, a place such as this could exist. They arrived in Bywater shortly after dark and left their horses at the Green Dragon inn, garnering some frowns and stares from the innkeeper, along with the not so indirect hint that Buckland lay to the east and Tookborough to the south. After reassuring the good man that they would be off east at first light, they continued on foot up the hill to Hobbiton.

 

ADL

 

The first thing that Boromir noticed was that Bilbo looked nothing like Frodo, nor did he behave anything like him. Where Frodo had a quiet dignity that never faded from him, Bilbo was exasperated and flustered by all the arrivals.  His attempt to send them away was easily swayed by the brothers, Boromir entered after them, having to duck with the low door, just quick enough to take the whole weapon’s arsenal from Fili, before he could drop it on the Halfling.

 

Fili grinned at him, humor sparkling in his eyes, but Boromir’s glance went past him, where Kili was just greeted warmly by a familiar figure. A huge warrior with a bald head and hands like shovels. Dwalin. When Boromir had gotten to know the dwarven warmaster Dwalin had been all grey, if still one of the mightiest warriors of his people, this Dwalin was younger but as gruff as he remembered him. “Kili, Fili, come on, give us a hand!” He said, Kili slung his arm around the warrior’s shoulder. “Mister Dwalin…”

 

Before the Halfling could hurry after them, Boromir spoke. “Do you have a chest where I can put these, Mr. Baggins?”

 

Bilbo looked at him like he was trying to decide whether or not Boromir was an improvement of the situation. “Down the hall, second door to the left, put them on the chests there.” He said politely.

 

The way down the hall was enough to teach Boromir the chief calamity of Bag-End, which was the low ceilings. Dwarves might be able to move freely through the place, but it was not made for men. Still he found the room and dropped the weapons on a chest there, safely out of the way of anyone prone to get cut or stuck on them. When he returned he saw Bilbo open the door to an entire group of dwarves who landed on his doormat, with Gandalf behind.

 

Within the chaos that ensued around the pantry and with the dwarves, Boromir did not fail to notice the inquisitive glances the old wizard cast towards him. He too was not quite calm meeting him. This man, Gandalf the Grey… the last time he had seen him like this had been before the battle with the Balrog in Moria. The Gondorian had shared many differences with the Grey Wizard, and he was surprised how much he had missed the familiar presence of Gandalf the Grey.

 

Again he felt an inquisitive glance of the wizard and their eyes met. The old wizard’s brows furrowed. “Who are you?”

 

“He is a friend,” Kili had just helped his brother with the barrel and now was back in the hall. “he is with Fili and I.”

 

The answer certainly was not what the old wizard might have expected but right beside them a fight for the tomatoes ensued and drew his attention back to the Hobbit.

 

ADL

 

If all Boromir had ever been told about the unexpected party at Bag End had been colorful, nothing quite compared with the real thing. He wondered why Gandalf would allow it to happen at all, but the warrior saw how Gandalf watched Bilbo, and silently assumed the wizard was testing the Hobbit, watching how he reacted to the whole dwarven group.

 

Kili seemed to go with the mood of the group, joking and making fun along with them, even instigating that inane dishes song as Fili tossed him that first plate. It actually made Boromir smile, for a moment the cheerful young dwarf resurfaced here, singing and laughing with the others. The moment passed quickly enough with Thorin’s arrival. 

 

With no chair quite fit for him, Boromir had sat down on a low chest in the corner behind Kili and Fili, the rest of the group had settled at once now that Thorin was present. The dwarven leader ate silently for a while until Balin asked how the meeting he had journeyed to had gone. Thorin confirmed that all seven kingdoms had send envoys, but any cheerful comment from the others was cut off by Dwalin asking directly about Dáin and the negative news Thorin had to share led to some loud discussion among the dwarves.

 

As the whole scene unfolded, Boromir felt a stark pain inside him, up till now he had assumed the decision to go only with thirteen dwarves plus one Burglar had been made because of a plan. That Thorin had chosen those he needed to follow through with a plan, a daring plan for sure, but a strategy nevertheless. Now he could see what the dwarves had never said: they had no choice. Their allies were unwilling to commit, they had to make do with what they had, with the rough lives they lived… what choice did they have? What options had they left? Boromir had seen what their lives on the road were like, and he would wish that kind of life on no one in the world. Again he remembered the discussion in Ithilien after the war, only now he could fully appreciate what they had faced, what they thought when they had discussed having to leave Arnor. Pushed too far these dwarves were willing to dare the dragon, even if it meant they were marching to their deaths most likely.

 

When he saw Gandalf give Thorin the key, something else sparked in Boromir. He knew the old wizard had often been the inspirer of events, nudging people towards necessary goals, often for their own betterment. But he had also seen the old man play kingmaker before and he wondered about that for a moment. There were many things at work here it seemed, not all of them obvious.     

 

There was little surprise that Bilbo rejected the contract, with that wording only someone crazy or with very wry humor would sign such a thing. The group had long broken up and spread out over the rooms of Bag End. Looking for the brothers, Boromir could not help overhearing the conversation of Thorin and Balin, He had not spoken much with the dwarven leader, but he admired the stubborn courage and nobility of Thorin.

 

The dwarves assembled by the fire but Boromir did not join them, he needed a moment alone, to think. He sat down on the floor in the dark hallways, hearing a familiar tune echo from the other room. He knew that song, had often heard Kili sing it. Now it was another voice that began.

 

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To find our long forgotten gold.

 

He closed his eyes listening to their voices, to the sad tune telling of their long lost home, of their dreams.  Was Thorin aware that the treasure was cursed? That there was a curse on the ring his father had worn? What had been Thrain’s fate ultimately? Not even Kili had known, or if he had, he had never spoken of it. Boromir wondered if there was any hope of preventing the curse from touching Thorin, there was  a wealth of hope and desperation in the Dwarven King, and the former Captain of Gondor knew all too well what that could do to you.

 

The pines were roaring on the height

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

  
The bells were ringing in the dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

Then dragon’s ire more fierce that fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

 

Esgaroth, Lake town, Kili had said the town had been burned by Smaug, another suffering that had led to the confrontation that had ultimately ushered Thorin’s way down into darkness. He looked up. Could this be the way? Prevent Smaug from flying up? Confront him in his lair and thus prevent the city from burning? If there was no army of elves and men make demands maybe Thorin would be less vulnerable to the curse.  
  
The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

  
Boromir let the tune wash over him, hearing the echo of deep sadness in it. He did not know how much he could do, how far his strength could reach here, but he knew he had to try, to save Kili and to help the people he had come to love and admire.

  
Far over the misty mountains grim

To dungeons deep and caverns dim

We must away, ere break of day,

To win our harps and gold from him!

 

“You’re not with them in there.” The Halfling had walked out into the hall, he too had listened. “Why are you with them?” He looked at him curiously. “You are obviously no dwarf.”

 

“They are my friends,” Boromir told him, the truest answer. _And Kili is my King._ “and I will go with them, no matter how far the journey leads us.”

 

“Even if it means your death?” Bilbo asked, he sat down on a chest, thus being eye-height with Boromir. “Even if all that happens… how did they put it laceration… evisceration… incineration?” he recounted the words still with clear fear in his voice.

 

Boromir met his eyes, he wanted to the Halfling to somehow see he was not bragging, just serious. “We all die, Bilbo, whether from a blade in the back or from the cart-horses’ hooves when the drunken driver can’t control it any more. It’s what we fight for, what we die for that matters, I’d rather die for a friend, or my king, instead of dying of old age in my bed. It does not matter how long a candle burns as long as it casts a bright light.”

 

“Do you really think they can do it?” The Hobbit asked, his eyes going back where the dwarves were gathered, the song had not left him unmoved, that much was obvious. “With thirteen odd people fight a dragon?”

 

“A good friend told me long ago that there was no strength in numbers, it does not take many people to bring down a great evil, just one fighter who has not forgotten that one candle is enough to burn away the darkness. I have found his words true more times than I can count.” He smiled, remembering Kili’s words, the strength he had seen in him during the War of the Ring. Maybe it was this stubborn courage, this never giving in that had inspired him most.

 

ADL

 

Finding a place to sleep in the Hobbit hole was not easy. Most of the dwarves camped on the floor somewhere, long used to make camp where they could find shelter; they simply lay down on the ground or slept in a chair they could find. Boromir looked for a calm place to do the same and saw Dwalin wave him over to another room. “Over here, that will save you from Bombur’s snoring at least for today.” The bald dwarf said.

 

Following him they ended up in another sitting room that actually had a fireplace. Boromir sat down on the floor, leaning with his back against the wall, he had gotten used to sleeping like that during the long war in Moria. It was easier that way and you were quicker on your feet when the Orcs came back. “Thank you, Dwalin.”

 

The dwarf had camped down in a much similar fashion, his back to the fireplace’s wall.  “You don’t look like someone used to travelling with our kind,” the said wryly, stretching his legs and making himself comfortable. “and I would like to know what brings a son of Dol Amroth up here… or to follow a dwarven Prince.”

 

His words chased off Boromir’s tiredness at once. “Flattered though I am, I am not from Dol Amroth.” He pointed out.

 

Dwalin barked a laugh. “Really, laddie? For you have their face, clear as daylight, even the elven fair hair – it’s diluted a bit in you, but it’s still there. And the way you speak… that shouts White City for those who know their tongue well. So, what brings you up here?”

 

“I may have been born in the White City, but I do neither have family nor blood ties there – I have not belonged to her in a long time.” It was all true, his citizenship had been stripped the day Aragorn released him from the oaths, and Boromir had never regretted that. “And I am here because I am oath bound to your Prince, if that’s why you asking.”

 

The dwarven warrior mulled that over. “No family, huh… so there was some truth to the story about Tarin of Dol Amroth abandoning his own illegitimate son, damn I should have known that was true when he had that poor baby of his niece killed.”

 

Boromir frowned, he recalled some sinister stories about Tarin of Dol Amroth, the man had only been whispered about and he had been said to have done away with a child after his niece had an affair with a minstrel. Those rumors while old had still cast a shadow over the house long enough to having nearly endangered Findulas of Dol Amroth’s marriage to Denethor. “I do not have a family, Dwalin,” he said a bit more firmly, trying to get that point across. “And you know a lot about Gondor it seems.”

 

The dwarf shrugged. “They hired mercenaries for some clash with the Haradrim, fought two campaigns there… then had an offer from Dol Amroth for the Umbar campaign…”

 

“But?” Boromir asked, the but had been audible in Dwalin’s voice and even more so in his face.

 

“I don’t work for a man who has murdered a child,” Dwalin replied coldly. “the story with his niece was all about, poor lass. She wasn’t smart playing with that minstrel, but doing away with her child… he could pay me all the mithril of Moria and I wouldn’t touch that contract. I went East instead, fought for Prince Tarkhan.”

 

“You fought in the Great Imperial Succession?” Boromir knew of this war, the greatest war of succession in the Easterling Empire, with the youngest Prince winning the war and unfortunately bringing the land back under the dark wing.

 

“Do they call it that now?” Dwalin laughed. “We called it the war of the twins, and Mahal smite me, it was the best contract I ever took. Could have stayed too… he offered me a legion.”

 

“Did he? Tarkhan… he was crowned Jadhur II then?” Boromir had studied the history of the Easterling Empire at least their wars quite extensively, to understand their strategies and their elite warriors better.

 

“Yes, Jadhur, the name the Oracle gave him. One hell of a fighter, tough as nails and downright vicious, but one of the best, fair to us mercenaries too… a great warrior king. I know you won’t like it, but I’d call him a good man.”

 

“They are people Dwalin,” Boromir said. “and as much good or bad as others, that’s the hardest thing in these wars, men fighting men in the name of greater powers. Why did you not stay?”

 

“Thorin had called, so I told Tarkhan it was time went back and fought for my king. He laughed and wished me good luck.” Dwalin leaned back, comfortable with talking wars and battles, and they soon ended up swapping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> The history of the Easterling Empire is made up by me as Tolkien never said much about them.
> 
> With lots of thanks to harrylee94 who is keeping me writing so much.


	8. A long and lonely road

With Bree falling behind in the pale blue haze of another spring morning they left the settled lands again as well as the road. Left of them rose the crags of the Cold heights while the long ridges of the south hills greeted them. A fresh wind blew from the east and the sun was already warm. The column of riders moved quickly, the ponies hardy enough to take the rough grounds well. Boromir was rear guard that day and watched the riders ahead and the land around them with sharp eyes. He had an eye out for the second pack pony, Myrtle, which was now ridden by the company burglar. Bilbo was not much of a rider but he and Myrtle got along well enough, except the pony sometimes had its own mind where to go.

 

Far away on the eastern horizon the snowcapped peaks of the Misty Mountains rose, only a glimmer against the blue skies. Still they made Boromir smile; he had never realized how much he had become at home on this side of the mountains ever since he had chosen to follow Kili to Moria. He did not know when he had fallen in love with this lonely, wild land, but seeing it now under the warm spring sun, awakening to the long windy summer of Eriador, felt as much like being home as had the shadow of grey Mindolluin in his youth. Only that Eriador was not a nice land, it was untamed and dangerous, not caring for those who loved it, this land would crush you if you were not strong enough to bear loving it.

 

“You are in awfully good mood today,” Bofur, who had been riding at the end of the column observed. “The next we’ll hear is you sharing a song with the rest of us.” He and the others had often sung while riding in the past days, and while Boromir was familiar with a great number of their travelling songs, ballads and occasional tavern songs, he had mostly listened.

 

“You could ask Bilbo for a song,” Boromir replied. “I dare say his people must have more tavern songs than yours, if that’s possible at all.”

 

The dwarven miner laughed, guiding his pony beside Boromir’s horse as they continued. “I have to say, for someone of the menfolk you fit well with us. Strange though that might seem, but sometimes when you look at Kili… there’s that expression you have, like you are seeing someone that’s not there. Something is worrying you.”

 

Travelling the lone lands had reminded Boromir several times at how he and Kili had met originally, but it was not a sad memory, he was glad he was here. “No, nothing like that Bofur,” Boromir replied. “I am sometimes worried, that’s all. Thorin takes both of his heirs on this quest, if things go badly…” He shrugged. “I understand that they could never inherit a throne they did not fight for, but… it’s risky still.”

 

“No, you are seeing this all wrong,” Bofur said with a smile, all intent in calming Boromir’s worries. “they are of Durin’s blood, of the true house, it’s something they do. They are born for such things, they aren’t like you and I in that regard. For us it is alright to prefer safety, or to choose to shield our children and evade danger, but them… they are different. Heroes. They couldn’t take any other road.”

 

Sometimes Boromir wondered how strong the legend of Durin’s blood was, how strongly it lived with all their dwarven companions, especially with those of simple background. Of course he knew how this legend had grown, from Moria, to the Ered Mithrin, to Erebor and back to the Ered Luin, through loss and plenty, war and peace, Durin’s blood had proven capable leaders, brave fighters and they had led their people through the storms of a merciless world with skill and determination. And while Thorin certainly was somewhat aloof, he never was haughty or conceited; he shared watches, hardships and duties with his lesser comrades as a matter of course, which made him an admired and respected leader.

 

***

That night they camped on a high ridge in the cold heights, the place was well hidden and a good deal off the great east road. Sitting with his back to the rocks, Boromir had allowed himself to doze off; his watch hour would be before dawn, the dog watch when the mists rose. It was the shriek that startled him into full awareness at once, a definite high pitched Orc shriek echoing through the dark. His hand was already on his sword and he was half up his feet, but Dwalin put his huge paw on his arm. “No need for alarm, that’s far away, at least a mile, maybe more.”

 

Sitting back but too wide awake to sleep again, Boromir noticed Bilbo coming back from the ponies. “What was that?” the Halfling asked, definitely startled by the shriek in the night.

 

“Orcs,” it was Fili who responded. “Throat-cutters. There'd be dozens of them out there. The lone lands are crawling with them.” He spoke calmly, but seriously, his eyes straying out into the dark.

 

Another short shriek echoed in the wind, both brothers tensing visibly. Kili stared into the direction from where the voice had come. “They strike, in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.” The first words had been spoken calmly, but as he continued his eyes widened, genuine horror shining in them for a moment. It left as quickly as it appeared, the young dwarven warrior remembering where he was, getting a soft nudge from his brother. Fili and Kili looked at each other, chuckling suddenly at Bilbo’s fearful face.

 

Boromir was not fooled, Kili may be quick in covering his own slip up, but even without the bond the expression in his eyes spoke of a wealth of horror, of something terrible. Before Boromir could react, Thorin had, sharply chastising both for the joke. “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” he snapped at them, answering their apologies with another curt rebuke.

 

The warrior frowned, while he understood that Thorin would not allow them to tease Bilbo too much, he wondered why the dwarven King would react so strongly. It was Balin who softened the entire situation by joining them near the fire. The old warrior’s eyes went to Thorin and back to them before he began to speak, telling them of Azanulbizar and Thorin’s fight against Azog.

 

Along with the others Boromir listened to the story. While he had heard the story of the battle of course, he had never a survivor speak of it, Dwalin had but only once and he had been so drunk that nothing he said made any real sense. It was not the events he heard of, but the way Balin related them, that made this story special. It was the tale of one man turning a battle around, confronting the worst enemy… crippling the foe enough to enforce a retreat. At this moment it was not the legend of a dwarf king long dead in the battle but of the man standing a good few paces away staring into the darkness.

 

ADL

 

It was in the silence that followed Bilbo’s question about the pale Orc that Thorin noticed Kili having slipped away into the darkness. The young dwarf was swift and soft-footed enough to do this mostly unnoticed. Drained, and tired from remembering too many old wounds, Thorin could well imagine what feelings had driven his son away from the others. His eyes searched for Fili who was still sitting by the fire, returning his gaze with a friendly nod. Thorin’s heart clenched, steadfast, reliable Fili the pillar they had often turned to. He carried much of the same burdens, the same hurts and yet he was always there when they needed him. Right now he raised his chin, a minuscule gesture to the left, indicating the direction Kili had taken when he slipped away.

 

Turning around he headed off into the darkness, finding Kili not all that far from the edge of the cliff. The young dwarf had wrapped his arms around himself, his shoulders shaking, even as he made no sound, biting down the audible signs of distress. Seeing him there and seeing the steep ledge below Thorin remembered as well.

 

It had been the time when Dis’ long illness had compelled him to take the two boys along on his travels. They had been dwarflings still, only in their late twenties and early thirties, already able to help in the smithy, but still so very young. On their way south they had journeyed with a small caravan of men, traders headed for Tharbad, some craftsmen with the same destination. They had made camp one night on an exposed hill west of the Swanfleet. Thorin had warned them, that spot was too convenient and not good to defend. They had not listened, telling him to shut up. With a heavy heart he had left, climbing the rock face above the place. They had spent the night up there, the two young dwarflings cuddled into his fur cloak, which hardly gave protection from the icy wind. In the hour before dawn the Orcs had come, a quick, quiet night raid. Alone, with only the two boys he had no chance to help the camp; all he could do had been holding the boys close, keeping them quiet while the bloodbath happened below.

 

“If you are here to tell me off for being weak, go ahead,” Kili spoke in a hush, not trusting his voice to speak any louder. He still looked down on the dark land below, but he had heard Thorin’s approach, knowing his step like none other.

 

Thorin bridged the gap between them, putting an arm around the lad, much like he had done when Kili was younger. “If that is a weakness, I am not any stronger,” he said gruffly. “there are things… once you have seen them, you never forget.”

 

Kili actually returned the half-hug, looking at Thorin, his dark eyes stormy. “Do you? You never seem bothered not even when they speak of the pale Orc.” He pointed out.

 

“I just hide it better.” Thorin sighed; he never managed to keep the steely façade with his son, and nephew. The two small dwarflings had wormed their way into his heart from the time they had been able to walk and follow him all about the Ered Luin. The two younglings had disregarded his glares, growls and the occasional snap, effortlessly getting past the armor he had guarded his soul with. They were his prime weakness, and the reason he had stayed strong all those long dark years.

 

Suddenly Thorin felt a strong hug, Kili having read too much in his eyes and reacting to the pain he saw there. “You don’t have to bear it all alone,” he whispered. “you have us.”

 

Thorin hugged him close, ruffling the wild dark hair. The first time he had heard that, had been only a few years after that horrible night, during their travels. Coming back to their camp, tired and injured, the boys had hugged him like that, with Fili saying those exact words.

 

“I should protect you from that, I should never have allowed you to see such things…” Thorin wished he could have. They should have been born in the halls of Erebor, as Princes of their people, not wandering the roads of Middle Earth with him in search for work.

 

Kili pulled back, his hands resting on Thorin’s shoulders, a manly gesture he had yet to grow into fully. “I would not have it any other way,” the young warrior said fiercely. “I’d rather have seen it and been with you, than knowing you went through all of that alone.”

 

ADL

 

The days that followed were cold and stormy, the weather taking a turn for worse, rain battered down on them and the wind turned west, bringing clouds and rain from the far away western seas. When the rain finally ceased after four days the wind remained cool and the group was tired. The night before they had been forced to fight off an orc band, sleep had been scarce. Most of them were relieved when Thorin called for an early halt that afternoon.

 

Boromir looked around the hillside landscape and the rocks. He knew this place. In another time he had come here in autumn with Kili, the ruin of the house had been gone but three stone figures had graced the hill instead. Trollshaws.

 

“That house looks like it was destroyed not that long ago,” he said to Thorin as they dismounted. “And the fields are not fully overgrown yet. This farm has not been in ruins for longer than a year or two.”

 

The dwarf leader cast him a sharp glance that said quite clearly that he had not asked for advice. “Many a home in the hills has been destroyed,” he replied walking off to speak to Gandalf. That talk did not go well, which became obvious when the Grey Wizard stormed off angrily and Thorin called for them to make camp. “Fili and Kili, look after the ponies, stay with them.”

 

Following the brothers, Boromir helped to herd the ponies to the ruins of the barn. “Let’s keep them together,” he said to Fili. “this place gives me the chills.”

 

The blond dwarf put a hand on his arm. “Such ruins make you sad, I know.” He said. “But there are no ghosts to haunt them. Whoever dwelt here, they went home to their ancestors.” Still, the brothers agreed to keep the ponies within the confines of the ruined barn and the old yard, which made it easy to keep track of them. Between them and Boromir the ponies were speedily taken care of.

 

They still had the sixteen ponies and one horse by the time Bilbo brought them the stew. “Are you going to sleep here?” he asked.

 

“Yes, it will make taking turns on guard duty easier.” Kili told him. “If you want to escape Bombur’s snoring, you are welcome at our fire.” These words earned him a smile from the Halfling who got his own bowl and sat down with them. They were watchful, careful to keep an eye on the ponies, as the night set in.

 

It was an hour after sundown when Dwalin hastened to them. “Burglar, watch the ponies, Kili, Fili, come along, Dori’s vanished.” He said, gesturing them to follow him.

 

They headed back to the main camp, where the group was assembled. “He just went to answer a call of nature,” Ori snapped desperately at Balin. “He did not do anything.”

 

Thorin cast him a sharp glance that silenced him. “But gone he is, Ori and we must find him.” He saw Dwalin return with the other three. “Kili, Fili, take Boromir and go east, see what you can find. Nori, you take Balin and Gloin go the other side, towards the stream, Dwalin, Oin, Ori you are with me.”

 

ADL

 

The forest was pitch black, there was no moon in the stormy skies of that night, Boromir hardly saw Kili glide through the shadows of the woods before him. Fili was at his side, moving nearly as soft-footedly. They came across a hill oak freshly uprooted, and another lying not far away. “Not good,” Fili whispered. “That can mean only one thing.”

 

“Trolls,” Boromir agreed, there was no other conclusion in Eriador, or anywhere else for that matter. The only other creature able to uproot a tree like that was giants, and they fortunately were a rare breed.

 

“Look there,” Kili had advanced ahead and spotted the flickering light of a fire ahead of them between the rocks. The same moment a scream, a shout for help echoed through the night. The young dwarf spat a curse, drew his sword and raced towards the fire, with Fili right behind him. Boromir lost no time to follow; those two really were leaping without looking.

 

They reached a clearing with three trolls, about to toss Dori into a cooking pot. The dwarf tried to escape the troll’s grip and screamed when he was beaten with the iron ladle of the trolls.

 

Kili leaped over the boulder, his sword slicing the troll’s leg, only a scratch of the thick skin. “Drop him!” he shouted challengingly.

 

“What did you say?” One of the trolls asked in his crude tongue.

 

“I said: drop him,” Kili whirled the blade in his hand, and had hardly the time to duck, when the troll actually threw Dori at him. Fili leaped out to support his brother at the same moment Thorin and his companions attacked from the other side, the dwarves storming the camp.

 

The fight was chaotic, fourteen fighters against three trolls. Boromir was far from underestimating the gigantic opponents. He had fought Olog-hai in battle, and knew they were tough adversaries. He saw Dwalin duck, providing the aid for Thorin to jump and hit the troll’s arm; the next moment Dwalin’s hammer hit the troll head, leaving the creature dazed.

 

Boromir tackled the troll that had just tossed Fili across the camp. The huge paw of the stinking creature came down to grab him, he did not evade, and coldly he stood ramming his sword right into the palm. The troll howled, black blood smearing the sword; he kicked Boromir, tossing the warrior through the air. Boromir tumbled onto his feet, behind the troll Kili approached, his sword cutting through the knees of the beast. He had hit the sinews, for the troll fell forward to his knees. It was all Boromir needed to react. He raced to the troll, running up the broad arm and on his back, bringing the blade down in the neck, where the spine connected with the skull. An ugly crack told him his aim had been true, for the troll fell forward, dead.

 

The Gondorian just managed to yank his sword free and jump off the carcass, when he saw the trolls raising someone caught in their grip above them. “Drop your arms or we rip his off!”

 

With a sinking heart Boromir saw that the trolls had recaptured Dori. He looked to Thorin, whose face was stony and unreadable, it was impossible to guess what the dwarf leader was thinking. When Kili had told him of Thorin’s decision for Bilbo, Boromir had admired the noble spirit of that decision, to rather die together than to give up a comrade. Now that he stood here, he wondered… everything in him told him not to give up the mission, not for one man. But Thorin threw his sword away.

 

ADL

 

A hit to the chest by the ladle ripped the breath from Boromir’s body. “He killed William,” the angry troll all but shouted. “We should make him scream.”

 

“No, we should beat him to minced meat and serve him with onion.” Another set of beatings fell, and Boromir bit his lip, not giving them the satisfaction of a scream.

 

“Hurry up, we don’t have all day!” Tom complained, tossing some more wood on the fire. “Let’s just roast him with the rest. He has some more meat than them.” Bert, the cook, added a few more hits for good measure before he tied Boromir up on the spit where some of the others were already ready to be grilled.

 

Thorin struggled with the bonds, trying to break free. Kili, tied up next to him had been shaking with every blow dealt by the troll, like they were hitting him instead of the human warrior. What would happen when the trolls truly grilled the others? Dwalin… he too was tied up there. Again the dwarf spanned his powerful arms to break his bonds. “Hold still, confusticated dwarves!” he heard a small voice whisper.

 

“Burglar?” Thorin hardly dared to move his lips; he had not heard the Halfling move close.

 

“Who else? Now hold still.” Bilbo whispered back, he was crouched behind the rocks where the trolls had deposited the captives.

 

The small blade of a kitchen knife cut through Thorin’s bonds, freeing his hands, the dwarven king was careful not to give away that he was free while Bilbo worked on freeing Kili and then Gloin.

 

“That little ferret is stealing our food!” The shout of the troll announced that that had been discovered. Thorin leaped to his feet, he had nothing to fight with, so he grabbed one of the troll’ roasting spits, throwing it with all his strength, hitting the cook troll’s eyes precisely. The creature fell, only moments before the boulder behind them broke apart and Gandalf’s voice echoed through the fading darkness. “The dawn shall take you all!”

 

ADL

 

Being off the roasting spit, the nearly roasted of the group had to search through a pile of things to find their armor and weapons again. Boromir was glad to feel the familiar weight of the chainmail again, he had had many close calls in his life, nearly reaching the halls eternal more than once but coming within a hair’s breadth of being served for dinner was a new one.

 

“Are you alright?” Kili had joined him, the young dwarf looked shaken. “I… I felt what they did…”

 

The bond had carried his pain to his friend, how often had they shared the pain of injuries, of survival? “I am fine, Kili, I’ve had worse.” Boromir told him. “What about you?”

 

“Dazed, it’s nothing.” Kili had fished his bow from the weapon’s pile. “That was too close.”

 

“Agreed.” Boromir’s answer was cut short when Balin handed him his sword, which had been lying on the bottom of the pile. The blacksteel blade was still slick with troll blood; he would have to clean it off at once. The longsword fit his hand perfectly.

 

“A good weapon, Boromir,” Balin observed. “Where did you get it? I do not recognize the make, and I would dare say I know the works of most spellsmiths of our people.”

 

“It is Kili’s work,” Boromir told the old dwarf, seeing understanding dawn in his eyes, along with surprise. “It is a wonderful weapon.”

 

“Aye,” Balin cast a curious glance on the sword, like assessing it again. “I did not know that Kili had already manifested the flame.” He murmured, then quickly changing topic. “Will you name it?”

 

“Trollbane? No, it deserves better.” Boromir laughed. “I think it will get its chance sooner or later. This was a skirimish, not a great deed.”

 

“Killing a troll single-handedly, should qualify.” Thorin had joined them, the extended hand making clear he wanted to see the blade.

 

Boromir handed him the sword. “You got the second one with that roasting spit.” He pointed out. “And it was Kili who brought the Troll to his knees so I could kill him.”

 

Thorin examined the blacksteel sword with the intense glance of a spellsmith, sensing all the power, the wild angry energy that had been forged into the steel. How had Kili manifested the talent so young? “That was desperation,” he replied. “you fought that troll coldly, waiting to get to the weak spot. Like it was not your first fight against their kind.”

 

Olog-hai had been staple in the armies of the shadow, but Boromir could hardly tell Thorin that he had faced them in battle. “There’s places where they are be used in war,” he said, not going into detail.

 

Thorin handed the blade back. “A worthy weapon, beware its anger.” He checked that the others were alright as well. “Trolls could not move in daylight, there must be a cave nearby.” He announced, sending them off to search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note
> 
> The chapter title is taken from Tolkien’s poem “The Mewlips”
> 
> Many thanks go again to Harrylee94 who patiently did late night work on this chapter and keeps inspiring me.


	9. The way is shut

The stench was what pointed them to the troll hole, Kili nearly choked when the unmistakable smell of death and decay caught his nose. He did not want to know what was in there, he could imagine well enough. But they had to check, if the Trolls still had captives they were their only hopes of escape. The young Prince lit a torch and followed the others down into the cave. He did not need to turn around to know Boromir was behind him, having the warrior at his back made him feel a bit better. The man took the stench, the buzzing of the flies and the bones they already found at the entrance with a stony expression. For a moment Kili caught a glimpse of an Orc den that must have been even worse than this pit from him but the image soon vanished.

 

They had been the last to enter the dank den, Bofur, Gloin and Nori were already down there and had found the stash of gold. “Would be a shame to leave it just lying around…” Came the familiar lilt of Bofur’s voice. Kili shuddered, this was a troll hoard and he was loath to touch anything those murdering bastards had possessed. Thorin’s gaze found his and with an imperceptible shake of his head, the older dwarf signaled him not to interfere.

 

Kili sighed and accepted his father’s decision, not saying a word when Nori went outside to grab a shovel. While Thorin inspected the dusty weapons stashed in a corner, Kili moved past the gold pile and deeper into the den. He doubted anyone would still be alive in here, but he wanted to check, to make sure they did not leave some poor prisoner behind.

 

The hind parts of the cave were steep, he skidded on the bones strewn on the stinking ground and slid down to the deep end of the hole. He landed hard on a metal shield that creaked under his feet. He stepped aside and lowered the torch, frowning. “This troll cave must be old,” he said, using his boot to push some dirt off the ancient shield. “This is the coat of arms of Cardolan.”

 

Boromir who had followed him down nodded in confirmation; he too recognized the symbol. “And they fell to Angmar. Had these trolls been here longer than we know?”

 

Kili shook his head. “Not these three, even trolls are not that long-lived. They only found a cave others of their kind may have inhabited in darker times. There are more armor pieces lying down here.” He raised the torch again to look around. “There, that’s an Arthedain helmet, some hill people plates and… that banded armor over there belonged to an elf.” A shiver ran down his spine. “Many died here.”

 

Carefully Kili checked the elven armor; there were actually two sets of them, lying discarded in this pit. They carried no sign, no coat of arms nor engraving which would allow the dwarf to place their maker or guess who had worn them. “Whoever they were, may their spirits rest peacefully,” Kili said softly, it was all one could do, wish the souls of those who had perished here a gentle rest. When he was about to turn and look for a way up again, the torchlight flickered on something at the back wall of the cave.

 

Stepping closer the dwarf found, a black bow amongst several pieces of badly shattered dark armor. The bow was nearly as tall as Kili himself. Carefully he picked the weapon up; it was cold to the touch and heavier than the bow he strapped to his back. Attentively Kili checked the bowstring, finding it still attached and made of fine metal fibers, twisted into one smooth string. Finding it undamaged by time and the elements, Kili spanned the bow and smiled this bow definitely needed a strong archer to even try and draw it. “This one should have a quite the reach,” he said, letting go, the bowstring hit his wrist forcefully.

 

“It’s a beast-riders’ bow,” Boromir observed, they had to serve on great distances. “I can’t quite tell whether it is of Eastern make, or Northern.”

 

“Northern most likely,” Kili replied. “Angmar used beast-riders in their battles. One might hate them for what they did to Eriador, but their weapons were good.” He squatted down and found a quiver of steel arrows beside the broken armor, quickly picking it up when he heard Thorin call for them to leave the cave.

 

ADL

 

The howl of the wargs echoed across the hills. With the woodlands behind them they had no cover any more, except for the rocks, but how long they could stay hidden was dependent on their luck and on the Rosghobel Rabbits. Running across the valley towards the next cover, Boromir saw Thorin’s hand signal, it was the sign for the warriors to catch up with him. Kili and Dwalin had seen it too and raced to the vanguard of their group. In the cover of the next rocks, the Dwarven King turned back to them. “We need to draw them off,” he said shortly. “We split up. Kili, Fili, Boromir and Dwalin you are with me, we’ll take on the chase, while the others get out of here.”

 

“No!” Gandalf interjected, ignoring the glare Thorin shot him. “There are too many for you to deal with.” The wolves passed them again and the wizard hastened to guide them towards whatever unknown destination he had in mind.

 

Crouching under the next rock, they heard the characteristic growl of a warg right above them. Boromir craned his neck, seeing the shape of the warg-rider pacing on the rock that hid them. Thorin gave Kili a quiet nod, slowly drawing his sword. The younger dwarf pulled an arrow from his quiver and sprinted away from rock, turning around he drew the black bow and fired. The arrow’s aim was true and tore the warg’s throat; the wolf tumbled down the rock, where the orc rider was quickly disposed of by Thorin in one swift strike of his sword.

 

It had been done as swiftly as possible, but the downed rider had still been able to shriek one last time and all the orcs turned from their other chases and came towards them. “Run!” Again it was Gandalf pointing their direction as they ran across the yellow grass, the wargs were quickly gaining on them, there were several groups closing in from all sides, trapping them at yet another rock-crowned hill.

 

The old wizard approached the mighty grey stone swiftly, using it as cover when he pushed his staff against the barrier he whispered the secret words for the hidden pass. The granite did not move, only a hollow echo rang from the stone. Gandalf paled, the passage had been closed, sealed on the other side. Only a moment later he felt the counter spell, the seal was a trap.

 

Thorin saw the wizard vanish, paying no heed. Let the old man use magic to flee, like the coward he was. They would have to fight their way out of this mess without his help. “To the rocks!” he barked, for those in the group that were not warriors. It would give them some cover for their backs, they’d have their hands full to deal with those orcs that got past the warriors. The others moved ahead, forming a semi-circle to defend their ground, they would be the ones who had to break the wave of the attack. The dwarf king held no illusions on their chances, but he’d fight to defend his people to the last breath.

 

To his right, Fili and Kili were guard, having chosen a boulder for their stand; its height allowing Kili an elevated position for shooting. Dwalin and Boromir were to Thorin’s left, both warriors had understood at once what he was trying to do, and Balin had taken Bofur to close the gap at the utter left. The old warrior and the miner, were covering each other’s backs. Thorin stood alone at the heart of the protective circle, they could not take them all on, but they’d allow fewer wargs to break through to the rest of the group.

 

The warg-riders were closing in, huge hairy beasts with their orcs on their backs swooping down the hills. Some spears flew, most of them badly aimed and missing their target. The one thrown by the Orc leader was better aimed but Thorin sidestepped it and reached up to catch it just in time. Turning the ugly weapon around, he threw it back with all the strength of his mighty arm, killing the mount of the orc leader. Angry howls rose and the wolves charged in earnest.

 

Thorin’s axe smashed the skull of the first warg that approached, the dying beast ripping the black weapon from his grasp, and the dwarven leader decapitated the orc rider with one stroke of his sword. The elven blade cut through the orcs like whirlwind through dry leaves. Thorin did not notice how much time had passed, nor how many were coming at him, he was caught in a deadly dance, each hit and stab another dent into the orc ranks. A warg jumped at him, Thorin ducked one silver circle of his sword cut off the ugly beast’s paws. Shrieking in pain the warg rolled on the ground, burying the rider under its own agonized mass.

 

“Kili, archers far left!!” Thorin recognized the voice of the human warrior, shouting the order at his son. Boromir and Dwalin had held their space of him clear, both fighters fought like they had been a team for years already and both shared the same incredible field-awareness, never losing sight of the overall battle. Dwalin had hastened to join Bofur and Balin who had been flanked by two wargs, once the wolves were dead he rejoined his comrade.

 

Kili stooe on the rock; precise shots taking out the orc archers, the black bow had truly an incredible reach. But he was running low on arrows; he decided to save the last arrows for more archers the orcs might be bringing and drew his sword, joining Fili who had turned the space before the boulder into a bloody field.

 

Another pack of wolves charged down on them, Thorin advancing a step, taking on the next of Gundabad’s ugly monsters. The sound of a familiar yet unwelcomed horn cut through the warm air and riders appeared on the eastern ridge. The dwarven leader was not relieved to hear them, their presence made the warg riders all the more determined to finish their task. If possible their attack became fiercer, the brunt coming down on him – they wanted him dead. Thorin fought with the grim will of a survivor, his sword cut through another orc, the next came close, Thorin’s fist against his head threw him back just long enough for the king to yank his sword free and attack him. He heard a choking sound behind him. One of the riders had dismounted on their first pass and was keeping the wargs off his back.

 

The dwarf growled and attacked the next foe even more fiercely. He had recognized those riders, and being saved by an elf was one humiliation he hated to bear. The riders circled the hilltop, their archers making swift work of the majority of the enemies. Thorin cut down his last attacker, hearing an orc die at his back. He turned around to face whoever had thought he needed the help. He came face to face with an elf in their typical banded armor, only that this was a few shades darker than they usually preferred, he held a curved blade in his left hand and had a bloody gash on his forehead, where a blade had grazed him. Grey eyes met stormy blue calmly. “Are you injured?” the warrior asked the dwarf speaking westron.

 

The dwarf shot him a glare, disliking the assumption that he was weak or wounded. The silence hung heavily over them, before Thorin finally spoke. “Only scratches,” he stated, “you should guard your head better, that circlet you wear is no protection.” The intricate silver band the elf wore told Thorin he had to be highborn, but no ruler, that much was clear to see. Still he should have been more careful, an orc axe would split this circle in half along with his skull.

 

Strangely the elf did not anger at his words. “I usually do not ride out like this when our rude neighbors insist to clamor at our very gates, but someone nearly broke the seal on the stone. We had to act quickly.” There was humor in his eyes, something that Thorin had not come to associate with elves.

 

“That would have been me,” Gandalf appeared beside them. “I tried to open the passage for my fellow travelers here, but not only did I find it sealed, but it trapped me also.” The grey wizard’s brows were furrowed as he stared down the elven leader.

 

The riders came close; numbering about twenty, the one that looked like a mirror image of the man beside him leading them. This sight was what answered Thorin’s question as to whom had come to their aid. The Lord of Rivendell had twin sons, who were famous for their never ceasing war on the orcs in the mountains.

 

“The passage is sealed, by order of my father, Mithrandir.” The Elf warrior replied. “It is not safe to keep open.” His words made it clear that he did not answer to Gandalf about how they protected their borders. Thorin hid a smile. He could nearly like the elven Prince for that, there were few people openly daring to oppose the old wizard. Instead he turned to see how his comrades had fared. The group at the rock was alright, aside from a few cuts and bruises, Balin and Bofur were still standing, as were Dwalin and Boromir. However Kili was squatted down beside his brother, who sat with his back against the boulder, an arrow protruding from his right arm.

 

Thorin hastened over to his son and nephew. An arrow had pierced Fili’s arm, the black shaft might have gone through cleanly, but Fili was deathly pale. It took only one sniff at the dirty arrow to tell him that something had been smeared on the arrow’s tip. Poison. “It’s just a scratch,” Fili spoke slowly. “just get it out of me, I’ll be alright.” But Thorin could see the grey sheen of his skin.

 

He considered calling Óin who was treating the cut in Bofur’s arm, but he knew with a sinking heart that the old dwarf would not have anything to deal with Orc poison quickly. Even removing the arrow and cleansing the wound with blue fire might come too late, the poison had entered Fili’s body, there was no doubt about it. His nephew was pretending to be fine, but he didn’t fool anyone. Suddenly Thorin’s mind was flooded with vivid images of Dari, bleeding out in his arms… No! He would not loose Fili too. _Do not worry, Dari, I will guard your son’s life. Even if I have to beg the elves for help._ “Kili, stay with Fili, keep him awake and warm.” He ordered, jumping back to his feet.

 

Kili quickly took off his leather coat, rolling it up to create a pillow for Fili to lie down on. His brother was shaking, a pain beyond the wound visibly etched on his features. Taking his healthy hand, trying to keep him awake, Kili felt helplessness like never before. The archer that had fired that arrow had been the last of the enemy bowmen and the one Kili had been unable to shoot because he had run out of arrows.  “You have to hang on, Fili,” he pleaded. “Thorin will find help for you.”

 

The elves had fanned out, securing the hilltop while the dwarves tended to their own people. Strangely they seemed to respect that the dwarves would wish only as much elven help as they had to. Thorin sighed, in this moment a nosy elf simply assuming that his help was indispensable would be a blessing. Why had he to meet well-mannered elves when he least needed them. He approached their leader, it was hard to tell those twins apart, but there were a small differences in their armor and the circlets they wore, he pegged the one who had helped him for the elder one of the brothers. “Prince Elrohir?” he addressed him, taking a guess on what he had seen.

 

The elven warrior turned to him gracefully. “Prince Thorin? May we assist your people, several are injured.”

 

“I would be grateful for your assistance,” Thorin replied, forcing himself to speak evenly. “My nephew was hit by a poisoned arrow…”

 

He failed to see the spark in the elf’s eyes at the mention of his nephew. “Then we better see to him quickly,” Elrohir began to walk towards the injured blond dwarf, kneeling down beside him, inspecting the wound and the arrow, his mien becoming serious. “You are right… it is Nightblood they smeared on the arrow. We could bring him to my father, but he would not last the ride.” His hand gently touched Fili’s forehead and he closed his eyes.

 

Everything in Thorin screamed to protect Fili from the elven bewitchment, but he held back, forcing himself to simply watch. Kili still held his brother’s hand a flash of hope in his dark eyes. After a few moments Fili’s skin had lost the grey tint and he breathed easier. “This will buy us some time, but not much.” Elrohir said as he rose. “Aelin! We make camp here, secure the hill and finish any stragglers,” he called out to a dark-haired rider, politely keeping to a language the dwarves would understand.

 

Half an hour later Fili was resting on a blanket beside a fire the elves had built, a few of them standing guard at the camp’s perimeter, while some of the others aided with the darfs minor injuries. Thorin had rebuked any attempt to look at his wounds. He had stayed at Fili’s side, who had become delirious with fever. Elrohir had told him to hold Fili’s arm, while he cut the arrow out of the wounded limb. Thorin had seen this done many times, and he could tell the elf was skilled with what he did. He made it as clean and swift as he could. The wound bled extensively when the arrow was out and elf let it, until he had a hot white root paste his brother brought him.

 

Fili groaned in pain when the hot poultice was pressed into the wound, Thorin firmly holding his arm still, so Elrohir could continue treating the injury. Eventually the elf put a bandage on the affected area. “We’ll have to change that with a fresh poultice every three hours.” He said to Thorin. “It will drain the poison from the wound and allow it to heal cleanly.”

 

“You have my thanks,” Thorin said, surprising himself by how much he meant it. Much as he disliked elves, Fili’s life was more important to him than an old grudge.

 

The grey-eyed warrior shook his head. “Thanks are quite unnecessary, Thorin Oakenshield. Will you allow me to take care of your wounds too?”

 

“It is nothing, just scratches,” Thorin pushed it off. “I appreciate what you do for my people…”

 

“And you are too stubbornly proud to accept the same help.” Elrohir replied with an un-elven directness. Their eyes met. “I would appreciate it if a man who hates the Orcs as much as I do, would accept help – or forget for the moment that I am of a race that he hates nearly as much.”

 

Curbing his pride Thorin gave him a gruff nod. “Very well then.” He said, removing his armor, to allow the elven warrior access to his injuries. Elrohir began to clean the cut near the shoulder gently, too gently; Thorin would have preferred some pain to the elven softness. “You say you hate the Orcs as much as I do.” He grumbled, his frustration finding an outlet in words. “What did they do to you? Or do you just hate them because that’s the way of your kind?”

 

The elven warrior spread a salve on the cut and began to bind it. He paused when he was finished, his gaze going past Thorin to the fire. “They murdered my mother,” he said, a cold edge in his voice. “Captured and tortured her… by the time we reached her, she was too far gone, she faded away and relinquished her soul to Mandos.”

 

Thorin closed his eyes; he knew what Orcs did with captives… what they would have done to that woman. No one deserved that. And he understood revenge, the vengeance the brothers had against the Orcs. “So even your kind knows loss.” He had not meant for it to come out as gruffly as it had, but the gentle way the elf probed the gash near his neck had made him tense. Give him the rough help Dwalin could provide any day.

 

Elrohir stilled, reaching for a bowl of hot water. “I know you hate my people,” he said, speaking more sternly. “but like I do not heap all the blame for the follies of the dwarven kings of old on you, I would ask you to not blame me for the cowardice of an elven king to whom I have no blood ties or obligation.”

 

“Cowardice, that’s the first time I have heard an elf called it that.” Thorin looked at the elven warrior; he had the fair face of his kind, thought it held a bit more character to it than many of their overly beautiful races were graced with. “Had you been there, when the dragon attacked us, would you have fought?” he provoked the elven prince.

 

“Try me.” Elrohir replied a clear challenge in his voice, before going back to treat the wounds, making swift work of them, and then leaving Thorin to guard Fili’s restless sleep.

 

On the other side of the fire Thorin saw Elrohir speak with Kili for a moment, his son quite relaxed in the elf’s presence. He saw Kili bow slightly, maybe in thanks for the help before young dwarf joined him at Fili’s side. “What was that about?” he inquired.

 

“Nothing,” Kili told him, busy with putting his cloak over Fili like a blanket. “I am just being polite.”

 

Night fell in the camp; Thorin knew they were well guarded, the elven warriors patrolling the outer ring of their refuge. Elrohir returned every other hour to check on Fili, twice he repeated what he done before, touching his forehead, and each time Fili slipped into a deep and healthy slumber. “You should get some rest too,” he said when he came back around midnight. “The son of Dari will stay with us, the crisis is passed. He should be awake by tomorrow and we can bring you to Rivendell the day after that.”

 

“Who says that we were headed there?” Thorin asked curtly.

 

“Gandalf may have claimed it,” Elrohir’s eyes assessing Thorin. “But he is not your master, so he may have erred there. But you have my invitation to join us.”

 

Thorin looked down, again hiding a smile. By extending the invitation the elven prince had made it a matter of politeness between himself and Thorin, no matter what Gandalf thought. Why did this elf of all people understand how much he chafed under Gandalf’s assumptions? Or did the proud elven warrior feel the same? Before he acquiesced to go to sleep he cast a last glance at Elrohir. “You challenged me to try you, I may yet still.”

 

From the other side of the fire, Elladan watched his brother and dwarven king in exile exchange sharp tongued barbs and veiled compliments. He could see the laughter in his twin’s eyes; Elrohir enjoyed the antagonistic debate with the dwarf. It was a sign of respect for Thorin Oakenshield, actually. The younger twin sighed, while he was an accomplished fighter like his brother, he was less of a warrior, finding wisdom preferable to the sword. Elrohir, Elven Knight, had been so aptly named. 

 

“Your brother may just bring our stubborn dwarven leader to Rivendell,” Gandalf observed beside him. The old wizard was still grouchy about being trapped in the sealed passage, caught like a bird in an elaborate cage. “For he needs the advice of your father, much as he would deny it.”

 

“My father’s advice or simply elven knowledge?” Elladan asked. “If the latter, my brother may find it in himself to smuggle them past our father’s esteemed court, which might not be unwise. The last time a King of Durin’s line and our father met, things became tense...”  

 

“Only time will tell,” the old wizard replied, thoughtfully watching the dwarven king who was pretending to sleep beyond the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to harrylee94!!! What would I do without you? I love it when you read the chapter to me. :D
> 
> Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur where remnant Kingdoms after Arnor split and all three destroyed by the Witch King of Angmar.


	10. An Elven Shadowplay

It was still dark when Thorin woke again from his restless slumber. He could tell that dawn was not far away, the stars had begun to fade. But this was not what had woken him. A single elven voice sang, the mournful ballad echoing through the silence of their camp, the words he could catch were in common tongue though, speaking of darkness and a storm. Pretending to still be asleep he turned on his bedroll to cast a glimpse of the fire.

 

The fire burning red and bright,

ash stained the broken city's walls

the shadow rose under that night

the elves fled from their shining halls.

 

One brave warrior would not evade

amidst the blaze he dared to stand,

and did alone oppose the shade,

Orcrist shining in his hand.

 

Elrohir was sitting beside the fire; it was his voice Thorin had heard. Fili, awake again rested comfortably on his blankets, his head and shoulders supported by a saddle. He smiled, listening to the ballad mourning the fall of Gondolin. There was a startling familiarity with the scene, Thorin noticed, and he did not understand it.

 

He felled the Balrog on the heights,

caught in the deathly blaze

he now is sleeping in the light

Until the end of days.

 

The ballad ended, the last echoes of the tune ringing out. Fili turned his head and smiled at the elven warrior. “You used to sing that to Kili after that injury, too.”

 

“The best way to keep him sleeping and rested, it seems to work on both of you, to keep the dreams away.” Elrohir replied. “There are few that will sleep so peacefully with just a tune to guard them.”

 

“Our Uncle used to do that,” Fili’s eyes strayed to the low fire. “When we were wandering, sometimes when it was cold and dark, he’d just let us snuggle into his fur coat. We could hear the storm and the wolves howl… and he’d just hum these songs, ancient dwarven ballads, to make us sleep.” Speaking of Thorin seemed to startle him up from his pleasant waking haze. “Thorin… is he alright?”

 

“Alright and only lightly injured, still asleep too I’d dare to guess.” The elf said, talking a pot out of the hot embers and stirred something into the scalding liquid inside. “Your brother is sleeping over there; he fretted over you half the night.”

 

“Get Boromir to look after him, he is good at being very reasonable and his presence seems to have a calming effect on my brother.” The blond dwarf advised sagely and sniffed the bitter herbal scent from the pot. “Oh no… don’t tell me it was nightsblood again on that arrow? Can’t they just put their arrows into the dirt like any decent archer will?”

 

Elrohir put the pot beside Fili. “It was Nightsblood, and no small amount of it.” He began to remove the bandage on Fili’s arm, carefully cleaning away all the old poultice from the wound, contrary to the ones during the night it was not black any more, but only slightly green. Fili’s blood was nearly clean. “I saw what happened,” Elrohir told him. “that arrow was meant for your Uncle, you moved into the arrow’s path when you saw it.”

 

“I’m not Kili, I cannot deflect them,” Fili stated a bit self-consciously. “Thorin did not see the archer, hand had his hands full. I had not expected the poison. Mahal, I did have some Elfroot, bloodroot thorn and lionheart in my pack… but that was all used by some trolls to spice up my comrades.”

 

“Trolls?” Elrohir had begun to put the new poultice on the wound, Fili made a fist, forcing himself to hold his arms still.

 

“Yes, we ran into them near Elderberry Hill and were very nearly cooked. You’ll love that story Elrohir, exactly the kind of trouble you always accuse some adventuring dwarves to get into.”

 

They both laughed softly, entirely at ease with each other. Thorin did not move, nor give himself away. When Elrohir stated that Fili had taken the arrow for him, he froze. The lad had nearly died from a weapon aimed for Thorin himself. It took all the self-control he had to lie still and not hurry over to Fili. Instead he watched his nephew conversing with the elven prince.

 

“… luckily we never had to explain to Uncle Thorin where Kili got that scar on his belly. I don’t want to lie him, Elrohir. And… I hate deceiving him like that.” The blond dwarf had managed to sit up halfway, leaning his healthy arm on the saddle. “And I hate that I have to deny your friendship but… I couldn’t take his scorn.”

 

“I doubt he would scorn you, Fili.” The elf said. “He cares deeply for you, it showed yesterday so clearly. If killing Smaug bare-handed was the only way to save your life, I would not count on that drake to live much longer.”

 

Fili couldn’t help but laugh. “I think he would take that as a compliment.” He said gasping for air. “But still… I understand why he dislikes your kind, Elrohir, not that he dislikes you but why. He carries so much pain, so much loss… sometimes I wish my father had survived, so he’d have at least someone to still protect him.”

 

This time Thorin did not manage to stay still, the self-depreciating words of his nephew cut into him. He saw Fili freeze mid-sentence when the young dwarf realized that Thorin was awake, the dwarven leader got up swiftly and joined Fili by the fire, he could see the apprehensive glance of his nephew, who clearly expected anger and a good telling off. Instead Thorin squatted down beside him, gently clasping the young dwarf’s shoulders with his powerful hands. “I mourned your father, Fili,” Thorin’s voice was rough when he spoke. “I mourned him because I had lost a friend, because he died for me, and even as he left me that day, he left the most wonderful gift behind – you. And I wouldn’t want any other to have my back.” Much as Fili reminded him of Dari, even to the point that he had taken that wretched arrow to save Thorin, he would not wish for Fili to be lost to them, not even if it somehow could bring Dari back.

 

Ignoring the pain in his arm Fili actually hugged his Uncle, he may not always feel up to the task of protecting the dwarven leader adequately, but he’d do all he could. He did not want to lose the man who had been like a father to him ever since the day Dari had fallen.

 

Elrohir had risen and quietly turned to leave to give the dwarves some privacy, but Thorin pulled back from the hug, exchanging a smile with his nephew that only Fili ever would see. “Stay, elf.” He said, not all that gruffly. “and tell me about how you came to befriend my boys.”

 

“Um… Uncle,” Fili spoke up. “It’s quite a long tale; I doubt you’ll want to hear it.”

 

Thorin could easily tell that there probably was more to this than his modest nephew might ever admit. The elven warrior had returned to the spot where he had sat before. “We met nearly eight years ago under Mt. Gundabad in the North.”

 

“Mt. Gundabad?” Thorin asked a freezing chill inside him. That mountain was the deepest of Orc territories not far from the ruins of Carn Dum.

 

“We stumbled over a hidden Stonefoot clan settlement near the ruins of Framsburg,” Fili explained, honestly. “they captured us and first we thought they would kill us to keep their place secret. But instead they traded us to their neighbors – the goblins. They brought us north to Mount Gundabad and made us work in their forges. We had not had the chance to even think of escape when Elrohir and his riders raided the mountain, to express his royal displeasure about some kidnapped elves.”

 

Thorin could see that Fili wanted to keep the tale light and complied. “The Orcs were so stupid to capture elves? They should have known that never ends well.”

 

“I am not sure what they put into their breeding pits but they certainly do not contain any intelligence.” Elrohir observed with a measure of arrogance only the elves would show towards their old archenemies. “When we arrived at the mountain we quickly discovered that they had a number of captives, but did not find out people. Fili and Kili were kept in the works…”

 

“The greater forge,” Fili supplied helpfully.

 

“And they were the first of those we freed who had heard of our people and were able to tell us where they were held. Only that the description was…”

 

“Tenth deep, fourteenth level beyond the main waterworks,” Fili helped out again. “We could see that the elves had no orientation whatsoever in that maze Mount Gundabad is and offered to guide them where they needed to go.”

 

“It was a brave offer,” Elrohir deftly took over the story, seeing Fili would gloss over their own good deeds. “They were injured and exhausted from the Orc’s hospitality, but they still offered to guide us at once without a hint of hesitation. I dare say we would not have found our people in time in that maze of tunnels. When we arrived in the waterworks we found not only our people but also some creature that resided there. Multi-armed with bladed claws and an armored body…”

 

“A Deep Watcher,” Fili helped him, knowing Thorin would know at once what it was. Durin’s house at least knew of all the ancient and often nasty beings living in the deeps of the world. “Elrohir killed it, jumping right on the beast and cutting its arms off.”

 

“Not quick enough, though. The creature had nearly impaled one of our people with its bladed claws but Kili stood between the beast and our wounded fighter…”

 

“Sliced his belly,” Fili said with a shudder. “nearly killed him.”

 

“The claw sliced his belly?” Thorin asked, he knew enough of these beings to know how close a call this must have been. “But such a wound, even if one survives it… it takes weeks to heal.” And suddenly he understood. “That was the reason why you were gone so long that winter.” The two of them had been away much longer than planned and only reappeared in late spring.

 

“Elrohir and his brother saved Kili, and got him back to his feet over that winter.” Fili confirmed. “We have been friends ever since. But… we did not know how to tell you.”

 

Thorin looked down for a moment, his long hair hiding his expression. He understood so very well how that friendship between his sons and the elven warriors had begun, a long time ago he had been similar in spite of the warnings of his own father about elves. He had not cared, trusted those Elves that had been friendly with him and… how had it ended? And yet, he had also lost the friendship of others since the dragon attacked, many a friendship among dwarves had grown cold when Erebor was lost. He realized his silence made Fili uncomfortable.

 

“A long time ago my father berated me for my choices in friends,” he said to Fili. “He disliked most of them and made no effort to hide that fact. In some cases his warnings proved all too true when Erebor was lost and those ‘friends’ showed they were anything but. Others though proved true friends in my darkest hours; Dwalin and your father’s friendships were a blessing during the dark times that followed the fall of Erebor. In the end no one can tell whom you should be friends with, and I am proud that you are making your own choices.”

 

ADL

 

Noon brought bad news, Aelin, the Noldor rider of the troop returned from scouting in haste. “There are more orcs about, Elrohir,” he told the Prince. “They must have gathered in the night somewhere west of us. There were warg tracks all over the land. We may have several hundred of them on our hands before nightfall.”

 

“Several hundred?” Elrohir asked. “Since when do they amass such numbers?”

 

“They haven’t done that for a long time, not since losing the battle of Moria.” Aelin agreed grimly. “If we want to fight this out, we need more men. Or we play a shadow game and vanish right in front of their noses.”

 

“My father would not appreciate a battle right on his doorstep,” Elrohir forestalled the comment he could see coming with a gesture. “And he is right in that. You know who is residing as a guest in Rivendell at the moment. This is not the time. Have the horses ready, we will march soon.” The Noldor bowed and went to rouse the camp.

 

Elrohir went back too and found Thorin. “We will have to break camp quickly,” he said. “Much as I am loath to allow Fili moved already. There are more orcs coming, many more.”

 

The dwarven King rose from where he had been sitting. “Will they be a danger to your borders?” he asked.

 

“There has yet to be an Orc born to cross our hidden borders,” Elrohir replied, surprised at the dwarf, Thorin might be insisting on his hate of elves, but he would not willingly bring the Orcs down on them. He was a complicated individual, and a proud warrior. In this moment Elrohir made a choice. “We can bring you and your people with us to Rivendell and keep your presence there silent, if you wish.”

 

Thorin locked gazes with the elven warrior, who seemed to have made it a point to be a puzzle to him. He understood what the offer meant, it would mean not having to deal with the court of Lord Elrond, or with whatever tangles awaited there. It was an offer of help, and one that would spare him having to bow to the Elf Lord. “Why do you offer your help?” he asked the Elf directly.

 

The elf crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Maybe because I hold sympathies for your cause, Thorin Oakenshield and respect for you.” He said. “At this very moment the White Council assembles in Rivendell, Saruman, my esteemed grandmother Lady Galadriel, my father, and Gandalf will have to attend. Whatever their dealings may be, I do not think that you will want to get entangled in their plans.” Elrohir had little patience for such dealings; he preferred a clean fight to politics, contrary to his brother who could easily navigate the mazes of diplomacy.

 

 _Whosoever wishes to deal with the elves must learn to play their games, chess, King’s Hill and their shadow play. The latter as ever shifting as their own minds._ Thorin recalled his mother telling him that, when she instructed him on diplomacy. He had never had the patience for anything beyond chess and he preferred Dwarven chess to Elven chess any day. But he understood what move of the Shadow’s Play was offered him here, to sidestep the center of power and move unfettered. “We will come with you,” he announced, accepting the offer.

 

Elrohir had helped Fili to mount his horse, and leading the animal. The Elves had the dwarves spread along their marching line, with all of them walking, except for those injured. “Stay close, once you see the path, stay on it, do not stray.” Elrohir told Thorin, who walked with him at front of the group. The dwarf understood, the way elven travelling was legendary. They passed through woods and wilds like an eerie apparition, untouchable and unreachable. Most who saw them believed that Elves were just like that. But there was more to it. Elrohir began to sing, a tune of haunting sadness, in a tongue of his people. Several voices echoed his song as they walked, and a path opened before them, the woods parted for them, the rocks gave way, there was no obstacle for them, nothing to hinder their passing through the land. Like a dream the whole group passed from the hill and vanished into the hidden valley and left no trace behind.

 

ADL

 

When the valley of Imladris opened before them, Boromir stopped for a moment, taking in the sight of the last homely house east of the sea. When he had first come here Kili had been with him too and they too had been saved from the Orcs by Elrohir. Strange, how some things seemed to echo in this journey.

 

“Boromir?” Kili had stopped beside him. “You look pensive… like you know this place.”

 

“Not like you do,” Boromir replied, he had heard most of the conversations in the morning, having woken at the first noise. He knew that Kili and Elrohir had been friends in the other life, but he had never learned how it had begun. But… it did not matter anymore. The longer they journeyed the less he felt connected to that other life, he was here now, and he belonged here.

 

Kili smiled, looking down, it was a gesture that much mirrored Thorin’s body language. “I spend most of the time up on Hawk’s Watch, confined to bed. Fili got to see all the good places. Come, we better catch up to the others.”

 

They hurried to reach the others again. Instead of crossing the bridge into the heart of Imladris, they turned left and followed a path rising up the valley. Here Gandalf left them, going alone to meet Lord Elrond and those who were assembled there on business beyond theirs, while the others were led and to an elven fortification that guarded the pass road to the Misty Mountains. Even a kingdom as hidden as Rivendell needed to guard against the dangers from the mountains. Hawk’s Watch as the small citadel was called, was under the command of Rivendell’s Princes and none of the elven warriors there would ask questions on whom they brought there.

 

The citadel  proved to be a true relief, the ability to just rest without the need to be watchful or the simple comfort of being able to have a bath were not to be underestimated. And while Boromir could tell that most of the dwarves felt like fish out of the water, they had travelled among strangers for too many years to let it bother them. Now that night fell most of them were resting, making the best of the time they had, for soon they would be on the move again.

 

Boromir himself could not sleep; he had gone outside into the main yard of Hawk’s Watch to walk for a bit. He knew Thorin was with the Princes and had called Kili to come with him and he wondered if Thorin would find the answers he needed there. The courtyard was not really dark, there were elven lanterns casting a silver light on it, like the echoes of a full moon’s light. It made shadows stand out all the stronger, easy to startle anyone who was used to reacting when he saw even the slightest bit of movement. He had to exercise some calm to not jump at every shadow movement he could see. He frowned when he saw another shadow moving above near the arched windows. Looking again he realized that this was not a shadow moving because some lamp was swinging in the wind. Someone was climbing along the sill, ducking to avoid being seen. The figure was too small to be an elf, and the company burglar, who might have fitted that size, was deep asleep with the others.

 

The Gondorian’s eyes followed the figure as it crept closer to the windows. An orc scout could have that size, if it was a thin one. Azog really meant business then. Boromir mounted the stairs leading up to the wall, he could see the sill the shadowy figure was standing on. It ran all along the building. Jumping on it Boromir was grateful that years of war in a crumbling underground city had taught him some balance, because the sill might be made for elf feet, but certainly not for men. He reached the corner and saw the small figure duck behind the large arched window. Then peering inside Boromir’s heart nearly stood still when he realized that the Princes and Thorin were in there. Acting quickly, he grabbed the figure by the neck, jumping down from the sill, landing them both on the wall below.

 

“Ouch!” A light voice spat. “That’s so mean.” The small figure managed to squirm out of his grip with astounding agility.

 

The picture of the orc scout evaporated when Boromir realized that the small figure was a boy of about ten years, a human boy at that, who glared at him with the indignation of his young years. A child… no assassin, no murderous gambit of the pale orc, relief flooded through him. “What were you doing up there?” he asked the boy.

 

The boy made a face. “My mother said that a Dwarven King was staying at the Watch, I wanted to see him.” He told him like it was obvious. “The dwarf in there is he really a King? He looks like a warrior.”

 

“Thorin is a King and a great warrior,” Boromir found himself smiling at the boy’s antics. Children would always be the same, he and his brother had not been any better when they had been that age. “What is your name, young scout?” he asked it good humor.

 

“Estel. And yours?”

 

“Boromir.” They had begun to walk away from the window and down to the courtyard again. The warrior suddenly felt like he had been slapped. Long long ago, during their stay in Lorien Aragorn had told Boromir that he had been a boy and snuck out in the night to see the dwarves when they came through Rivendell. Somehow Boromir had never really imagined Aragorn as a boy, just like any other, curious and adventurous.

 

“Is it true that the Dwarf King… King Thorin… that he is going to fight a dragon?” The boy asked. “Is he that great a fighter?”

 

“He is the greatest warrior of his people,” Boromir replied, seeing the boy was fishing for stories. “He has to be, his people are a brave and proud nation, they would not respect him otherwise.”

 

“He has fought many battles?” Estel asked, his eyes shining. He had not yet been sent away back to his mother and gladly followed the great man-warrior through the Watch.

 

“Come with me and I’ll tell you about them.” Boromir led Estel to the place where the dwarves had their camp, they sat down a small distance away so as to not disturb the others who slept. Estel sat down opposite of Boromir who began to tell him about Erebor, the dragon, Azanulbizar and some other great deeds of Thorin he had heard of. Having heard these stories often during his life made it easier to recount them and Estel hung on his every word, listening with wide eyes.

 

“So is he really going to fight the dragon?” he asked in the end. “But why… he could die.”

 

“Because his people need their home back and he wants to protect them, that’s what a good King does. He fights for his people, protects them.” Boromir said. “And that dragon is dangerous to others too, were he to leave his lair again many more could die.”

 

The door opened and an elf woman looked in. “Ah… there you are Estel, your mother was worried.” She said.

 

The boy sighed. “I have to go, my mother is waiting.” He said, rising to his feet. “Thank you for all the stories, Boromir.”

 

“Wait a moment,” Boromir went swiftly to his pack, since he had a longsword again he had not used his twin blades much, he never would be a good dual-handed fighter. They were his reserve weapons now. Guardian and Avenger were identical blades, he weighed them in his hand and then he took Guardian and went back to the boy, handing him the blade. It might be a short-sword for Boromir but for Estel it was a two-handed weapon at this time. “Eriador is a dangerous place, Estel,” he said. “One day you’ll need this.”

 

The boy’s eyes beamed at him with all the admiration only a boy like him could have for his first weapon. “I will keep it, always.” He promised before the Elf Lady insisted he come with her.

 

“You are going to need it, Thorongil,” Boromir said to the closing door.

 

ADL

 

Thorin moved his third gryphon on the board to attack Elrohir’s war-mage; the elf was a good chess player and played with a flair that reminded the dwarf of the way the Elven warrior fought. Thorin’s own game was slower, but more solid and he could tell that he had gotten the Elf in trouble. To the side sat Kili, watching amused, sometimes about to give advice but knowing better than to do that.

 

“You have not asked me what brings my people and I here,” Thorin observed, as he watched Elrohir moving another game piece.

 

“Should I?” Elrohir asked back. “You are not answerable to me. I have my own guesses on where you are headed, rumors are all about and if it is true, then you are truly brave to try and dare the dragon.”

 

“We have a map we can’t read,” Kili said, shaking his head. “One might think that great-grandfather or whoever made it would have been less cryptic.”

 

Thorin shot him a glare; sometimes the boy was too free with his tongue. But then… here was his choice. He could choose for himself whom he trusted with the map or could wait for Gandalf to decide on that. Thorin preferred his own decisions. He discounted their chess game for the moment and revealed the map. “My father left me this, Elrohir, he believed it to be the key to get Erebor back. I cannot decipher the secrets he hid in it.”

 

Elladan, who had been sitting aside with several books rose to join them. Earlier that evening he had identified the sword Thorin had found in the troll hoard as Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver, a blade one of the greatest legends of Gondolin had wielded. “May I?” he asked politely. Thorin handed him the map, it was easy to see who of the twins was the scholar.

 

“All stories about the attack on Erebor say that the dragon smashed through your main gate,” Elrohir observed. “at least that’s how the Dirge of Erebor describes it.”

 

There was something Thorin found he liked about this elven warrior; there was not a shred of mercy in him. He did not try to be delicate about the topic or to ask gently, he spoke as a warrior, requiring information. It made speaking to him easier. “What the dragon broke was the regular gate.” He said. “The day we fled… a wounded warrior remained behind and closed the siege doors behind us, to prevent the dragon from coming after us immediately. He sacrificed himself so we would have a chance. The gate is shut and there is no force in this world that can move it from the outside.”

 

“But the dragon must have a way to fly out,” Elrohir said. “for while he has not been seen for sixty years, he has been seen before, flying from and to the mountain.”

 

“The great dome,” Thorin said. “it was a grand hall in the mountain, close to the top. It was shattered the day of the attack. Through that hole the dragon could fly and it is out of our reach. Up there in the eternal ice of the peak, there is neither way nor path.”

 

“Which is why the secret door existed,” Elladan said thoughtfully. “there is a Cirith Mithil inscription on this map… or several, but only one that can be revealed at this time. Moon Runes can only be seen by the moon of the shape and season of the day they were written.” He approached the high window, raising the map into the light of the moon outside.

 

Thorin joined him, seeing the silvery letters appear on the parchment. How long had it beend since he had seen the silver set of pen and ink that were needed to write such runes? The ancient Khuzdul script gave him little trouble to translate, and neither of the twins offered unwanted opinions on what he would know anyway. “Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the key-hole.” He read the text out loud. “This means there is little time to be lost, the summer is waning, Durin’s day will be upon us soon enough.”

 

“I will guide you out of the valley at first light then, Thorin.” Elrohir said.

 

ADL

 

In the fresh light of a new morning Galadriel walked swiftly over the wide paths of Rivendell towards the Hawk’s Watch. The meeting of the white council had been going on all night and even longer than she had anticipated with Saruman being especially testy. He was concerned with some of Mithrandir’s plans, and had been frustrated that there had been no trace of the dwarves and their leader. The White Lady had been amused for she knew very well where to look for those he searched for, even as Elrond pretended not to notice what his sons were doing. For all her respect for Mithrandir, she did not believe the dragon an immediate concern. He could be dealt with at a later time. What had kept her attention on that travelling company was something else, an echo… an echo of something that was not right, an echo of change, of something that might yet be. And while she disliked puzzles she could not solve, this also would have to wait. Her errand was of much greater importance.

 

The guards of the Hawk’s Watch made respectful room for her when she walked into the citadel. The small bastion was a necessity for the hidden valley, bordering on the Misty Mountains and with less protection than Lorien’s borders, such things helped them to keep away the dangers of the cold mountains. She found Elrohir swiftly, she did not need to search for him, she knew where to find him. He stood with Aelin, discussing something. The sight of the Noldor called up painful memories for the Lady, Aelin had the appearance of his proud, defiant house. When he saw her he bowed and excused himself at once.

 

Elrohir greeted her with a bow of his own. Her grandson… the child of her Celebrían. Where his brother Elladan had inherited the softer yet sadder disposition of the Sindar, all the stubborn and fierce traits of the Noldor legacy seemed to manifest in his brother. “Elrohir, I have need of you.” She told her grandson as they walked together on the walls. “Something is stirring in the darkness; a shadow has fallen on Mirkwood. A shadow I cannot yet penetrate to see how deep its reach is. I cannot fight such a shadow without knowing whom it may have affected.”

 

“The Woodsmen?” Elrohir asked. “They live in the southern parts of the forest.”

 

“No, it is not them that I worry about.” Galadriel’s eyes went up to the mountains, where storm clouds were gathering. “But our kin living in these woods. They have long lived close to the growing shadow and I do not know if it has reached them. They have changed and their decisions have become strange.”

 

“You think Thranduil’s cowardice could be explained by that?” Elrohir asked thoughtfully. “But how did it get a hold of him?”

 

Galadriel looked at her grandson knowingly. “His will would not carry him to destruction but away from it.” She chastised her grandson lightly.

 

“Away from the world you mean,” the warrior crossed his arms in front of his chest, clearly willing to argue. “he can hide in his woods right until the orcs come and burn them down.”

 

Such fierce fire, such stubborn will, such a love for the world in all her darkness. “Beware, Elrohir,” Galadriel spoke softly. “if you embrace the world like that it will burn you and hurt you until your broken spirit will long for the respite of the undying lands.”

 

She found her gaze met by defiant eyes, grey as the storm above the mountains. “To love the world means embracing the pain it will give us, to accept that such love will carry pain and loss. I would rather feel such pain than to feel nothing in a protective shell.”

 

He deeply loved this world and she feared for him. Like his siblings he lived with the youth of the Eldar, but he would be asked to choose his path one day, for he too carried the blood of two races. But such a decision was far along the paths he may or may not choose to follow. “I need you to take your riders and go to Mirkwood.” Galadriel told him. “And find out if the woodland realm has been touched by the Shadow emanating from Dol Guldur. I need to know what dangers they will be in, or what hold the shadow has on them. But do not take your brother with you.”

 

His answered with one word. “Why?”

 

She knew what he asked; he rarely separated from his twin. “I am sending you into danger, Inyo,” she whispered. “The world is shifting under our very feet, a whirlwind has touched us and the leaves are ripped into the maelstrom, and I do not see the way out. But taking your brother with you echoes disaster… danger.”

 

He approached her, gently taking her hands in his. “Then I will ride, and find that doom you feel. Let us ride the whirlwind.” He could say it to her and smile confidently. She knew he would take flight in the whirlwind, like the Hawk above the storm. Maybe he was the bird she was seeing in her vision swooping down on a lonely mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and hugs for the wonderful Harrylee94… I could get used to you reading my chapters out loud. You should produce audiobooks. :D
> 
> I am going with the assumption that Tolkien places in “The Hobbit” that there are “wicked dwarves” who were allied with the goblins and other nasty people. 
> 
> The Moon Runes: I am going with the book version where it was enough to hold the map up into the moonlight. While the observatory in the movie was impressive, it would be impractical to use moon runes at all if one needed such a crystal to read them. 
> 
> Inyo = the dictionary gave me that as the Vanyarin Quenya for “grandchild”. As Galadriel is part Vanyar I chose that form for her to use.


	11. Fire and Shadow both defied

Thunder rolled along the ravine like an angry battle drum, heavy rain showers were driven against them by the wind, and the flying rocks threatened to bury them with each and every step further. The ground was moving under them, the stone itself having come alive in the form of a stone giant, half their group left behind when the gigantic creature rose. Boromir steadied himself with one arm against the rock; his other hand grabbed Bilbo’s shoulder, holding the Halfling on the narrow ledge.

 

“We need to get off this thing!” Fili’s shout was barely audible over the earsplitting thunder. They had to duck when one of the stone giants threw another slab of rock at them, or rather at the stone giant who was their unwitting carrier.

 

Boromir could only agree with Fili, the age-old adage _When giants fight, dwarves should hide,_ had suddenly become all too true for them. “Over there – the high ledge. When he moves again, we need to try and reach it.” He pointed the direction he meant; it was above them but came into reach whenever their stone giant moved.

 

“It’s too far, Boromir, some of us can’t jump that!” Fili shouted back as they came up again when the hail of rocks had passed. His eyes went to Bilbo and Ori indicating whom he meant.

 

“We throw them before we try to jump!” Boromir had to shout, the thunder drowning out any noise, they were out of options, their giant was trapped between two of his kind and neither of them would want to go down with that thing. He saw Fili’s nod, the blond dwarf turning to Óin, who too might need assistance with that jump, if he understood at all what this would be about.

 

“Bilbo…” Boromir moved his foot back, finding some hold between the rocks as the giant swung back, ready to hit his opponent full force. This was their chance.

 

“Ori first.” The Hobbit insisted. He was pale, wet like them and clearly afraid but he stood his ground, both hands having found a rock spike to hold on to.

 

Boromir accepted the Halfling’s decision; his kind was a hardy, brave race once they discovered their own courage and Bilbo definitely had more of that than others. The warrior grabbed Ori firmly and once the giant attacked, swinging them close to the rock face again threw the dwarf with all his strength, he could see Ori landing on ledge above them, as did Óin and Bifur, leaving only Fili, Bofur, Boromir and Bilbo on the giant’s leg.

 

The creature shook violently as it was hit by a huge boulder from its first adversary and this time it did not recover from the hit, but began to move uncontrolled, swinging staggeringly towards the ledge with the others. “We have to risk it!” Fili barked. “Bofur!” The younger dwarf and Boromir gave the miner jumping assistance before Fili followed, pushing himself off the rock with all his strength to jump towards the vague safety of the ledge above.

 

Boromir grabbed Bilbo with one arm, holding onto him tightly and followed, his jump coming a few moments too late, the distance already widening again. He missed the ledge, his hand only just so finding a sharp stone needle to hold onto. The wet material was slippery under his fingers, cutting into his hand. It took all this strength to hold on, he gritted his teeth and tried to pull himself up.

 

“Boromir!” He heard a shout from above, Ori’s attempt to assist him nearly cost him his tenuous hold on the rock. Her groaned. “Bilbo… I’ll lift you up, grab the ledge.”

 

He had only managed to lift the Halfling part of the way, when he saw movement beside him, Thorin had climbed down to them, grabbing Bilbo and tossing him up to the others. The same time that Boromir felt strong hands get ahold of his arm, Kili was pulling him up. He managed to grab the ledge with his free hand and make it up. Panting he let himself fall on the wet stone ground.

 

“That was close…” Kili was trying to sound normal but failed miserably at it.

 

Thorin called for them, he and Dwalin had discovered a cave that would provide them with some measure of cover. “Look around, caves in the mountains are rarely uninhabited.” The dwarven leader said. “We will rest here for few hours and go on at first light.”

 

The group spread out in the cave, finding a place to settle down. Boromir chose a place close to the wall, sitting down like he was used to, back to the wall, weapons beside him, he closed his eyes trying to relax himself into sleep, allow his body the rest it needed.

 

“You can never stop being watchful, can you?” Bilbo asked softly, the Halfling was sitting not far from him. “I don’t think I have seen you lie down to really sleep since we met. Even in Bag End you did that.”

 

The warrior looked at the smaller figure sitting in the sand beside him, Bilbo may have little similarities to Frodo but Boromir found traces of Merry and Pippin in him, only with a hint of thoughtfulness and responsibility. “It’s a habit,” he said. “That way I can be on my feet to fight within a moment. If you lie down it takes you longer to get up and act, when suddenly attacked. Many warriors do that.”

 

Bilbo scoffed lightly. “The dwarves are warriors, Boromir, and they certainly don’t lack sleep.” He looked at Dwalin who was snoring away gleefully. “You always expect attack, even in Bag End, where the only raid ever happening would be on the larder.”

 

“Some of the dwarves are warriors, not all of them.” Boromir pointed out. “They have been wandering as workers, miners and blacksmiths, going where they would find paying work. It is a difficult life, and I admire how they learned to live with the dangers and the hardships of the road.” He hoped to get Bilbo to talk about something else, the Hobbit was very perceptive.

 

“You admire them a lot.” Bilbo observed, settling down more comfortably, glad to talk and calm down a bit after the scare on the rocks outside. “It showed when we talked in Bag End.”

 

“ _Always arriving, ever leaving, oh who cursed my people so?”_ Boromir quoted a ballad he had heard from Kili years ago. “I do admire them, they are a strong, proud people, many lesser nations would have been utterly broken by what they had to endure. First they lost Dwarrowdelf to Durin’s Bane, then they lost their new home, Erebor, to the dragon, people look down on them because they have no home any more, and they will still keep going. They keep their pride, they try to rebuild. If Arnor had one tenth of that spirit Eriador would be better off.”

 

The Hobbit seemed thoughtful at that. “How do you manage to always keep your weapons on you?” he asked, grabbing the belt with the scabbard and sword.

 

Boromir waved him closer. He had recognized the blade as the sword Frodo would wield in later years. “You keep it on you whenever you can, only take it off when absolutely necessary. And when you sleep you keep the blade beside you, learn to keep one hand on the hilt when you sleep. That way you will grab it when you wake.” It was a dangerous thing to learn, you could easily end up stabbing someone with lesser reflexes but Bilbo would need years to develop anything that deadly. His eyes fell on the sword seeing the blue shine. Orcs!

 

“Trakîr menu! Rûkh ai drak!” Enemies approach, Orks upon us. Boromir had shouted the Orc alert the same moment he jumped to his feet, pulling Bilbo with him to the wall. It was a reaction of absolute reflex, his mind needing several moments to catch up with the actions ingrained by too long a war.

 

“Wake up!” Thorin’s reaction was as swift but to the sand of the cave floor vanishing. The ground gave way, as a trap opened tossing the dwarves down a long shaft. Boromir and Bilbo stood barely on the rim of the gaping hole; they could see their friends tumble down the spillway, vanishing into the darkness.

 

“We need to do something, Boromir.” Bilbo was pale, his eyes still on the dwarves vanishing into the deep. “This can’t be good.”

 

“It is a Goblin den,” Boromir confirmed. “We need to go after them, before they close this trap.”

 

“What are we waiting for?” Bilbo grabbed the rim of the trap and swung down into the shaft. “It is steep but I think we can walk down.”

 

Halflings, they could be frightened by the howl of a wolf and they could be the bravest beings of Middle Earth! Following Bilbo down into the shaft, Boromir decided that Frodo had gotten his courage from his Uncle.

 

The tunnel was steep, they had to be careful not to slip and several times they were forced to jump down some steep bits, but they made it down to a hole in the wall, only to see their comrades dragged off by a host of Goblins in the distance. The bridge they were led away on was spanning a wide chasm, filled with other bridges and wooden platforms held by ropes, suspended above the black pit below, torches lighting most of the huge cavernous dwelling.

 

Boromir looked at the lit grotto in disbelief. It could not be, it simply was not possible. He had been here before, in a darker, more ruined version of this damnable den. But he knew it all too well. “I would have never expected to see this den again.” He grumbled, finding a way for them climb down from the hole to the next bridge.

 

“You’ve been here before?” Bilbo looked at him shocked. “Do you know where they will bring our friends?”

 

“I wish I did, it was a long time ago.” Boromir drew his sword. “Come, Bilbo, we are going to get our friends back.”

 

ADL

 

Moving through Goblin Town was not an easy thing to do; the place was crawling with the mountain orcs though they were not particularly attentive. Keeping to the shadows as much as he could Boromir moved along a ledge, Bilbo scouting ahead, crouching behind a post, his raised hand signaling the warrior that a Goblin guard must be standing there. Swiftly Boromir caught up, grabbing the guard from behind by the throat to strangle a scream while he rammed his dagger into his neck. The Goblin died noiselessly, and Boromir discarded the body into the deeps, gesturing Bilbo to move ahead again.

 

The Halfling had been shaken when he had seen Boromir kill the first Goblin like that, swift and from behind, but by now he had overcome his fear. Deftly he sneaked across the bridge, dousing the torches as he went. When he had passed the bridge lay in enough darkness for Boromir to risk a swift crossing. He still ducked, concealing his size as much as he could when he made it across. On the other side Bilbo pointed towards a cave tunnel, raising two fingers, indicating two goblins in there.

 

The warrior crept closer, careful to not give himself away. The two Goblins stood very close to Bilbo but not having detected him yet. The Halfling looked at him questioningly, his eyes going to his own sword but Boromir shook his head, they had to do this silently. He threw his dagger hitting the goblin’s large eye precisely, the blade burying itself into the creature’s brain. Not giving the other time to react Boromir grabbed him, one arm around the throat; pulling the head back he heard a low crack as the Goblin’s neck broke. He let go of the corpse, dragging both of them into a dark corner where they would hopefully remain hidden for some time.

 

Again the nimble footed hobbit had moved ahead into the tunnel, extinguishing the torches on the other end, giving him the all clear with a raised hand. Boromir caught up to him quickly. They stood on a natural balcony above the huge main cave of Goblin Town. There were wooden platforms everywhere and down below them they could see one exceptionally large one with a disgusting looking throne. The Goblin sitting on that thing was the ugliest of creatures Boromir had ever laid eyes on, not even some of Mordor’s monsters could compare.

 

The Great Goblin jumped off his throne. “Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom? Spies? Thieves? Assassins?“

 

One of the smaller ones replied. “Dwarves, your Malevolence.“

 

Boromir recalled that from Kili’s story, the dwarf had only once spoken of it, the night before the battle at the Black Gate and while the Gondorian still hoped Gandalf would show up very soon, he was already planning ahead. “Bilbo, do you see the rope over there?” he asked softly. “Do you think you could climb it?”

 

The Halfling eyed the frayed rope doubtfully. “I think I could, Boromir. But why? There must be hundreds of Goblins up there.”

 

Squatting down to be on eye level with the Hobbit Boromir said. “Do you see those casks up there?” he asked, pointing his chin up to the platform the rope connected to. “Those are stone oil casks; the Goblins use that oil to feed their torches and tripods. Pushing one over and tossing a torch on it will be enough to set that entire part of town aflame. I will take the other side.”

 

Down below the situation had not been going well and Thorin had stepped forward to protect his people. The Great Goblin eyed him with gleeful wickedness. “Well, well, well! Look who it is! Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, king under the mountain. Oh! But I'm forgetting you don't have mountain, and you're not a king. Which makes you nobody really.”

 

Bilbo too had looked down, and then turned back to Boromir. “Scorch the entire town; that’s your plan? Don’t you think that is a bit… ruthless?” He did not like these Goblins at all but burning their city would trap thousands of them between the chasm and their burning contraptions. It was something that one found in books or old stories, usually not done by the good side.

 

The warrior’s green eyes met Bilbo’s steadily. “Look at them, Bilbo,” Boromir said pointing at the Goblins above. “This is the face of the enemy, they will not give quarter or mercy, and they revel in the pain of others. We are the only chance our friends have, and we need to reduce the Goblin’s numbers greatly. Are you with me?”

 

In this short moment Bilbo got a glimpse at Boromir, not at the wanderer, the travelling companion of the dwarves, not even the loyal warrior of King Thorin, but at someone else, a warrior, a leader, a man who would go to any length to protect his friends, a survivor that had shed the last vestiges of hesitation a long time ago. And he relied on him, Bilbo Baggins, to help him save a dwarven king. It was the most absurd, most ridiculous thing he had ever heard of and yet… he would do it. Because Thorin needed them, and so did Bofur, Balin and all the others. “I will be with you.” He said, straightening up.

 

“Let him watch his spawn squeal!” The Great Goblin’s voice echoed up to them and Boromir felt the searing pain of a lash through the bond. He bit his lip; it seemed Gandalf was too late. “Hurry, Bilbo, we don’t have much time.” He helped the Halfling to climb onto the rope, and then he turned to another rope hanging free, he’d have to swing towards the other dais to make his way to the other end of the dwelling ring.

 

Bilbo tried not to listen to the commotion down below, where the Goblin King had Kili lashed to agonize Thorin further. The young dwarf took it bravely; there were no screams nor pleas from him. But every time the Hobbit heard the sickening swish of the lash he remembered that Boromir had called this the face of the enemy. He knew what he was talking about. Bilbo climbed faster, not heeding the deep chasm below nor the fraying rope under his hands. He would do this, he would make them end it.

 

When he reached the platform Boromir had indicated he saw the casks and torches were everywhere in this town. The next goblins stood a good few paces away. This time he had no warrior at his back to kill them. But maybe he did not need that. They would not see him. With new courage he swung onto the platform, grabbing a torch. There were two casks right at the rim of the wooden stage. He peered down there and had an idea. He kicked the first cask down there to smash on the platform below, then kicked the other over to spill its contents right on the stage he stood on. Lighting this oil first with the torch he dropped the torch down to the next platform.

 

Flames rose before him and below, the oil spreading the flames swiftly, and it reached the next casks burning through the wooden planks, the liquid inside only enhancing the storm of fire. Horrified Bilbo realized that he was trapped between the chasm and the expanding flames. With all his strength he jumped for the rope he had climbed up, his hands finding the rough material but the impact too much for the frayed rope, it broke and with a shocked shout Bilbo fell into the deeps below Goblin town.

 

Boromir felt the lashes like they were hitting him instead of Kili, he exhaled sharply, accepting the pain. Only now he realized that Kili may have told an abbreviated version of the events in Goblin town, keeping the painful, horrible parts to himself. The Gondorian had taken care of enough of Kili’s injuries to know the dwarf had lashmarks and a brand on his shoulderblade. Only now he began to guess where he had gotten them, what had happened to him. Tortured to get to his father… those damned bastards, burning bloody Orc-spawn.

 

A wave of fear and nausea reached Boromir, whatever was happening, Kili was struggling not to drown under the Goblin’s hands. And then he felt the heat, the searing heat of the slave brand. He closed his eyes, drawing the pain inward, reaching for Kili through the bond. He would not let him suffer through this alone.

 

ADL

 

Kili nearly choked on a sob, trying to hang on. His upper body was naked, his coat ripped away and at his feet. He felt the warm blood tickle from the gashes on his back. He had no chance to escape the lash or the Goblin’s grubby hands. But when they brought the slave brand, he could not hide his fear any longer, his brave façade crumbling. No… not that, not branded like cattle, like an orc slave. He had seen this done up in Mt. Gundabad but escaped it back then. Grinning the Goblin held the iron before his face. “You’ll howl for us,” he said before turning to Kili’s back.

 

He did not know what was worse, seeing the brand or not seeing it, not knowing when it came close. The pain came, a white hot flame of agony ripping through his body mercilessly, his eyes watering, and suddenly there was cold…

 

_He stood on the dank ledge, reaching for the next small rock spur above him, it was cold and wet under his fingers, not much to go for but enough to try. He pressed his naked knee to the wall and pushed himself up, finding a small hold for his bare foot. He did not dare look behind, knowing the shaft behind him was steep and long, falling all the way back into the bowels of the dread city._

_Rise from the Shadow_

_and overcome your fear_

_Rise from the chains_

_a new dawn is near._

_A voice rose from down there, the voice of the man who was giving his life to allow him this escape. His heart clenched, brave tormented Irdián, fighting a battle that would end in death and he was running. And he could not turn back; Irdáin had gone through all this to free him._

_Rise from the agony_

_that torments your soul_

_Rise from the doubts,_

_the day can make you whole._

_He climbed on, his body aching with every movement up the endless dark shaft. Hearing the sounds of blades deep down and the song of the warrior going down with a battle that no one may ever hear of but no one would ever forget. His voice carrying above the clash of steel, Irdáin went down laughing, smiling at death. He did not hesitate longer, climbing faster. Above he could see a bright square, the exit from this hellish place. It was said that no one ever had escaped the dungeons of Minas Morgul, he would prove them wrong._

_Rise from the prison_

_bleeding and torn,_

_Rise above the shadow_

_and your legend will be born._

And suddenly Kili was pushed back into his body, pain wracking through him but he had born the brand without a scream or a plea to his father. He would live and get out of here. High above the goblins screamed as fire broke out on both sides of their city.

 

ADL

 

Boromir kicked over the last cask, tossing a torch at it, the flames spreading quickly. The town was aflame from both sides and from below. The Goblins were screaming, trying to escape the wrath of flames suddenly upon them. The warrior took a running jump landing on the bridge by the King’s platform. The moment he landed he saw a ray of white light and the familiar silhouette of Gandalf appear on the other side of the stage. The old wizard appeared much more powerful as he appeared out of thin air before them. “Take up arms! Fight!”

 

The dwarves got to their feet, grabbing their weapons, once shaken from their shock the mismatched band of travelers became a well-coordinated fighting force. Boromir had headed for the side of the platform where Kili was kneeling on the ground, reaching him together with Dwalin, who helped the younger dwarf back to his feet. Kili winced when Dwalin helped him to grab his coat before Boromir reached them. No words needed to be spoken between the bald dwarf and Gondorian, they both covered Kili as they began their flight out of burning Goblin Town.

 

They raced over bridges and faltering platforms, making use of breaking beams and hacking the ropes of more than a few bridges. Boromir couldn’t help but admire Thorin, down here in the underground battle the man was not only a formidable fighter but also a cunning planner, some of the maneuvers he executed Boromir would have thought impossible, especially the one with the ropes and crashing platform. He could not tell through how many Goblins the dwarven King had cut, he was the vanguard of their flight, an unrelenting, tireless fighter.

 

Their luck ran out at one of those dratted suspended bridges, it was half aflame from burning embers raining down from the upper city. The dwarves raced across without paying much heed, they did not fear fire. Kili stumbled when they approached the bridge. It was a miracle that he had been able to walk at all. Dwalin put the young dwarf’s arm around his shoulder, supporting him. “You can do this, laddie, I know you can.” He growled gruffly, before he helped him to cross the bridge with Boromir following. The Gondorian turned around to Ori, who still stood on the other side. “Come on, Ori! Run!” he barked, moving on when he saw the dwarven scribe follow him. But they were too late, the fire had eroded the ropes too much, the bridge crashed under them and they fell into the chasm, crashing down on a much older bridge in a chasm of sharp rock shards. Dwalin sported a scratch in the side, he had managed to push between Kili and the cave wall. Boromir had landed in the middle of the bridge unscathed.

 

“Where is Ori?”He looked around to find the other dwarf, he had been behind him on the bridge, he must have fallen with them. A pained groan made him look beyond the bridge. Ori was down there, his body impaled on a sharp rock spike. Boromir felt a lump rise in his throat to choke him, the rock spike was long and sharp, the way it protruded from the center of Ori’s body there was little doubt the wound was lethal, but the young scribe was in for a slow agonizing death. Even if they had not all the Goblins of this city down on them and managed to free him… he would die. There was nothing that could save him and his dying would be gruesome.

 

“Ori…” Kili had struggled to his feet, tears streaking down his face, for the moment he forgot his own tortured body. “We need to help him.”

 

“There’s nothing that can be done, laddie,” Dwalin said softly. “Mahal have mercy on him.”

 

“Dwalin…” Kili pleaded. “We can’t let him die like this.” Ori’s agony was audible for them, and his death was not fast coming.

 

“There is only one mercy we can give him, lad. A clean end.” The Dwarven warrior said, putting a hand on Kili’s shoulder. “Boromir… look after the young one, I’ll go…”

 

“No.” Kili’s voice steadied, the strength pushing past the pain, was something Boromir knew from other times. “I will go. If it has to be like this, it is my duty.” The young dwarf Prince did not hide the tears in his eyes when he took Dwalin’s dagger and climbed to the ledge where Ori lay. Boromir watched him kneel down beside Ori, gently touching the agonized dwarf’s face. He could not hear what Kili said to Ori, but he knew it would be something good and meaningful, to make his passage easier. He had seen Kili do this with deadly wounded warriors, being there in those last moments, giving them strength, letting them know that their sacrifice meant something and would never be forgotten. Kili raised the blade, ending Ori’s agony with one swift stroke.

 

“Mahal receive him in the halls of his eternal fire,” Boromir whispered in the dwarven tongue, a blessing that had become familiar to him in the many years in Moria.  Dwalin looked up at him with a strange expression. “May his sleep be long and his father’s find him.” He added.

 

Kili came back to them, his face pale, the traces of tears marring his cheeks, but otherwise he was composed, as he handed the dagger back to Dwalin. A shriek rose ahead of them, the Goblins were blocking their path. Boromir drew his sword, anger burning in him. These monsters had felled one of their comrades; they would not get any more. The sword in his hands felt hot, singing as it echoed his anger. He sprinted ahead, attacking the first Goblins.

 

Rise from the Shadow

and overcome your fear

Rise from the chains

a new dawn is near.

 

The words accompanied the blade when it beheaded the first of the Goblins, Boromir turned, bringing the blade about to behead another two, each stab and attack accompanied by a line of the battle song. A kick for the next to fell down the ledge, stabbing another in the chest. Dwalin reached him and his hammer smashed skulls.

 

Rise from the agony

that torments your soul

Rise from the doubts,

the day can make you whole.

 

Arrows cleared the archers from a ledge above; Kili had taken the black bow, shooting the Orcs that tried to attack from a distance. The young Prince had pushed past the physical pain and the agony in his heart, fighting for his life and that of his loyal comrades. He would not give in.

 

Rise from the prison

bleeding and torn,

Rise above the shadow

and your legend will be born.

 

They did not know how many Goblins they killed on their fight out of the Goblin town, but when they finally managed to hack away a bridge to cut off the Goblin pursuit they were nearly at an exit that led out of the tunnels. It was dark outside, only a moon shone above the mountains. They stood in a valley on the eastern side of the huge mountain chain and saw high above them a ledge, with trees ablaze. And there was a swarm of eagles clearly visible against the pale moon as they swooped away, carrying some small but familiar figures with them.


	12. A Tale of the Reach

It was not the pain that kept Thorin awake; he told himself when he stood on the porch of Beorn’s house. Like the others he had been warned to not go outside after sundown, but he cared little. The last days had left him cold, empty like he had not felt since Azanulbizar. He had nearly fallen to Azog’s blade, had Bilbo not intervened. Having escaped the caves on his own their brave burglar had raced after them, arriving in time to stand between Thorin and certain death. The rescue by the eagles had been a miracle they had desperately needed. Yet, it had come at a price, of the fifteen members of the company only eleven had escaped the deeps of Goblin Town.

_You will die_ _down_ _here_ _and never be found_! _Down_ _in the deep of_ _Goblin_ - _Town_!

 

The words had become brutally true for four of them. Ori… so young, too young to die in those accursed deeps, their idealistic young scribe who had braved this journey in spite of his fears; Dwalin, brave, loyal, Dwalin, his friend of so many years… the thought of him perished drove hot tears to Thorin’s eyes much as he tried to bite them back. Kili… his son, the only thing left of his Ida. At least Fili had made it out alive. The very thought made Thorin angry at himself, he hated that he was secretly glad that it had been Fili who had survived. Boromir, Thorin had not known him well, but seen the man was fiercely loyal to Kili and had come to appreciate him as a superior fighter. They were all gone; never making it out behind them out of the deep caverns and all that Thorin could hope for them was that they had not suffered long.

 

“You shouldn’t be out here; it is late.” Fili had come out to him, worry and sadness clearly echoing in his voice. “You need to rest for your wounds to heal.” He walked up to Thorin to stand beside him. “Don’t give them up just yet.”

 

The dwarven King looked at his chosen son amazed, where did Fili find the strength to go on like this? “Balin saw them fall when the bridge collapsed,” he reminded the younger dwarf, trying not to sound harsh. Balin had been remarkably calm about his brother’s demise, Dwalin had fallen in the service of Durin’s house and the old dwarf had said that his brother would not have wanted it any other way. Only Thorin did not feel very worthy of this loyalty in this moment. “Even if the fall did not kill them… there were legions of Goblins between them and escape. Kili… he was injured.”

 

Fili actually put his arm around Thorin’s shoulders, comfortingly. “I know,” he said softly. “but… my heart cannot give up on them just yet. Something inside me keeps saying that Kili is not dead yet. And if he is alive, the others may be as well. We have to trust them to survive on their own.”

 

 _And I do trust them to go on until we can return._ Why did Fili remind him so much of his father? Thorin wordlessly hugged the boy close, glad for him to be there. “I will trust you in this, Fili… and not give up.” He said eventually. “I do not know how to hope like you do, but I can trust your hope.”

 

For a while they stood silently in the darkness, the summer night was warm with a fresh wind blowing from the river. “Will you come back inside?” Fili asked after a time. “You need to rest.”

 

“I’d rather stay outside,” Thorin said. “give Dori and Nori a bit more time to grieve.” The two were expressing their pain stronger than Balin or Fili would. He could see Fili’s near protest. “But I will sit down out here.” He gave in to his nephew’s worry.

 

The porch was broad, made of wood and he sat down at the far side of it. “Will you stay?” he asked Fili. “Just sit with me a while.”

 

The younger dwarf joined him. “Gladly. I can’t sleep either. What happened in Goblin Town… when they grabbed Kili… whenever I close my eyes I could still it happening.”

 

Those pictures would not go away, if ever. Thorin knew that all too well, he could still see Thror beheaded, Frerin riddled with arrows and that fierce blade that took Dari, he still could hear the dragon’s roar over the hot dry wind. And while he did not want to forget, while he made himself remember whenever he felt that they began to slip his memory, he would not burden Fili so. Not with the lad having so much to hope for still. “Did I ever tell you how I met your father?” he asked. “It was during one of King Thror’s visits to the reach…”

 

Fili shook his head wordlessly, and Thorin realized all Fili had ever heard about Dari was about the brave death his father died.

 

_“Is it necessary to take Thorin? I understand you have to visit them, but why drag the boy to a bunch of miners who are nearly as bad as surface dwellers?” Thrain’s voice rang out through the wide halls of Erebor’s Royal quarters. The Crown prince of Erebor was arguing with his father, King Thror._

_“I want Thorin to know and value them, as you cannot bring yourself to respect them.” King Thror grumbled, contrary to his usual appearance he had exchanged his robes for sturdy leather clothes with warm furs inside. The royal dwarven house was expected to excel at a craft and while Thrain was a superior gem cutter, his father never had the patience for such delicate work. Thror’s expertise was in mining, he knew his mountain like the best of his miners, and he would often be down in the deeps to see the latest sources and new mines for himself, planning with them on how to expand their depths. It was something the King loved fiercely, and while his grandson showed all the signs of being an arcane smith, the old King enjoyed sharing the love for the deeps of the mountain with his grandson. It was good, he thought, that Thorin respected those who worked in the deeps, that he was not as haughty as Thrain._

_“I do not say, don’t take him to the mines,” Thrain grumbled. “Someone has to know all there is about that and I won’t rely on the overmen for that. But the Reach… do you have to take him up there?”_

_“The people of the Reach have sworn to our house,” Thror reminded him. “And they have been at our side since Durin’s days. It is time Thorin got to meet them.” He noticed that his grandson was listening. “Ah, there you are Thorin, all changed and ready to go?”_

_Thorin looked down at himself, he too wore leather clothes, with furs inside, they were very warm and did not look very royal. “Yes, but why such warm clothes, Grandfather? It is summer.”_

_Thror smiled at him. “Because we are going to visit the Reach, summer never touches the eternal ice, and it never gets really warm in the tunnels under freezing peak. It is a wonderful place, a marvel that the people of the Reach have built in their icy homeland.”_

_Seeing his grandfather’s happiness Thorin was happy to tag along, he was glad for days such as this when Thror was like he had been when Thorin had been small. “The people of the Reach are dwarves?” he asked, having heard of them for all his life but he had never seen one of them._

_“Of course they are. When Mahal hid the dwarves under the mountains he placed the Blacklocks, Stiffbeards, Stonefoots and the Ironfists under the Orocarni in the east, they became darkish and distrustful, you know them. But one pair of the dwarven ancestors Mahal had hidden close to the top of the mountains in his hurry. The starlight touched them through the ice peak, before they woke and it changed them. Instead of the Ironfists that they had been meant to be they became the people of the Reach. Because the light touched them their skin is lighter than ours and their hair is like spun gold. They live on the peaks of the mountains, when they come down here into our city; they get homesick for the snows. And up in the icy reaches they mine rare materials and jewels under the ice, they build an entire city under the glacier.”_

_Thorin listened attentively, fascinated by the idea of dwarves living in the barren peak of Erebor. “Have they always lived here?”_

_“Yes.” Thror said. “Some of them aided Durin when he founded Moria, building the watchtowers in the heights on Zirak-Zigil, and they swore to Durin as their high King. But they have always lived on Erebor, it is their home. When Moria fell, it was them who aided our ancestor’s journey to the grey mountains and later here.”_

_They had climbed many stairs inside the mountain, until they came to a gate leading out onto the glacier of Erebor. The sun shone brightly and Thorin shielded his eyes against the glare. The reach was a white field of ice and snow with watchtowers indicating some habitation even in these lifeless ranges. They were awaited by a dwarf about the age of Thorin’s father, he was blond and wore heavy armor. He and Thror greeted more like friends than King and liege man. Thorin learned that this was Rór, Lord of the Reach. “When I heard you were bringing Prince Thorin to see the Reach, I brought my boy as well.” Rór said, introducing a boy maybe ten years younger than Thorin, named Fálki._

_Visiting the Reach proved a fascinating experience indeed, the city was carved into the ice of the glacier and the mines delved into the rock under the ice, Thorin heard of a labyrinth of ancient tunnels running all through the peak, whispered to be older than even Moria itself. But the best was that Lord Rór was perfectly content with letting him and Fálki explore, accompanied by two guards, because the Reach was a dangerous place to be in, even under the best of circumstances. Fálki proved a good guide, for all his youth, he was only thirty-five, he was fairly serious already and could tell Thorin many things about the Reach and her people. Sometimes Thorin had to smother a smile, though, it was clearly visible that the boy was proud he was entrusted with showing Prince Thorin around._

_When Thorin asked about a legend he had heard about the Reach – the dragon forge – Fálki had been happy to comply. “It is down in the deep reach, my Prince,” he said as they walked down a long winding stone stair, into an icy tunnel. “It is somewhat of a lesser quarter today, rough craftspeople, lower ranked warriors and such… but they are the ones to keep the frostwyrms in check. There is no need for worry, they may be rough but they are honorable.”_

_They had walked into ancient tunnels, a maze of several levels of rock and ice forming a lower class quarter, with forges, smelting pits and stone works. Thorin knew the simpler quarters of Erebor and he could see the difference, this place was not nearly as rich as Erebor, and it showed. Yet, they could move openly, and aside from a few people making room for them on the road, they did not attract much attention._

_At least not until they reached the place where Fálki said the stairs went down to the labyrinth where the legendary forge was said to be located. Thorin had already guessed that the younger dwarf was having him on, and that he did not really know the legendary forge. From the tunnel ahead they heard a noise, like weapons drawn and then they saw two dwarves racing from the tunnel’s mouth. “Frostwyrm!!” One of them snapped. “Run, the barrel’s lit!”_

_The guards grabbed Fálki, dragging him backwards, away from the tunnel. Thorin saw a glow, like a shimmer rise from the depth of the tunnel’s mouth, something was moving in there, something shining like cold silver and moving like a snake. He could not help it; he walked closer wanting to see what kind of creature it was. “Prince Thorin!!” He heard Fálki shout, but did not react._

_A roar rose from the tunnel and Thorin saw something like a wyrm, enveloped in blue fire crawl from the shaft. The beast shot forward and only now did he realize that it had seen him. But he was unable to move, his body frozen much as he wanted to run. A paw came down at him, but before it could hit him, someone stood between him and the frost beast, two swords parrying the paw with crossed blades. One blade burying deep into the paw, the Frostwyrm howled and began to trash against the tunnel._

_The next Thorin saw was a blinding light and he heard the Frostwyrm scream in agony, the armored tail of the beast crushing the ceiling. Someone grabbed him, pushing him down, and they slithered over the wet ground between the beast’s paws and down deeper into the tunnel. Behind them the ceiling collapsed, further stones hailed down, he felt himself pushed over a ledge and landed hard. Someone held him down, shielding him from the rubble flying through the tunnel. He never knew how long it took for the ground to stop shaking, but finally the mountain calmed and silence fell._

_The other dwarf got up and helped him to his feet. “That was close,” he stated, lighting a torch. In the flickering shine of the flame, Thorin saw one of the people of the Reach, he might be older than him by a decade or two, wore rough leather armor, swords on his back, and he sported a bright blond mane of hair. Intense sea green eyes looked at him. “Are you injured, my Prince?” he asked. “You took quite a fall.”_

_“No, I am fine, thanks to you.” Thorin looked past them where piles of rubble blocked the tunnel; the ceiling must have broken on several yards of tunnel. Hundreds of tons worth of rubble blocked their way back. “We’d have found our grave there…” only now Thorin realized what had happened. “I should have run.”_

_“Frostwyrms have hypnotic eyes, your Highness. T’was your guards that botched it to not get you out of reach.” The other dwarf stated._

_“Thorin, my name is Thorin.” He said, this dwarf had just saved his life. “What is your name?”_

_“Dari, son of Nar.” The other dwarf told him, raising his torch to inspect the cave-in._

_That name was somewhat obvious, orphans and children out of wedlock were named sons of Nar, after a generous ancient dwarf who had allowed for all those children without a father to be called his. So Dari was either an orphan or fatherless. “Will they be able to dig through to this?” Thorin asked, looking at the cave in._

_“Thirty yards of collapsed tunnel, that will take weeks, if they can do it anytime soon anyway.” Dari said dryly. “We better go for another exit.”_

_“Are there other ways out of here?” Thorin could only see a tunnel leading deeper into the peak. He had nothing with him, not even a weapon._

_“We need to cross the labyrinth, but we can make it in a few days.” Dari said. “Do not worry, my Prince, surviving in the peak is not all that hard.”_

_“We do not have any provisions, not to mention any water.” Thorin pointed out. “I did not bring a weapon to visit an allied city.”_

_Dari handed him one of his swords. “There, you might need it if meet another Frostwyrm. And there is water coming from the rock in some places, we can find slugs, cave mushrooms and Frostwyrm eggs, do not worry, Thorin, we can survive this.”_

_And he had been right. In the days they had needed to cross the labyrinth they had found food, even as Thorin found it disgusting, he was too hungry to care and there was water to be found, or ice that they could melt. On the third day of their march through the labyrinth they reached a catwalk spanning a wide chasm. In the middle of the dark, Thorin saw a glow, the only pillar in this chasm that was not uninhabited. His heart nearly stopped when he realized that he saw the legendary dragon forge – built on the rock in the dark and heated by flowing lava. He heard a hammer ring and echo through the darkness. “Who… is there truly someone there?” he whispered to Dari._

_“Yes, do not go closer, unless it’s the choice between death and entering.” The other dwarf told him. “He who lives there tolerates my kind, but he bears no love for yours. He will tolerate some of us, but only few. My brother Skar, he can go there, but he knows when to stay away either.”_

_Thorin caught a glimpse of a tall figure working on the anvil, red light blazing, bathing the smith in the light of flame. “Who is he?” he asked Dari in a whisper._

_“No one knows,” Dari replied. “it is said that our ancestors found him near the lava stream ages ago, beyond memory, as a matter of fact and they healed his wounds, nursing him back to health. He has lived here ever since. Few of us can come close, fewer that he will truly tolerate, but he is the greatest smith alive.”_

_“And your brother can come there? He must learn a lot.” Thorin meant that as an honest compliment._

_“Skar is blind, the nameless one likes his harp music.” Dari said. “Come, Thorin, we better not linger.” And he had led him on into the darkness of the winding tunnels again. It was the hardest, most fascinating journey in Thorin’s life so far. He saw the ancient places under the peak of the mountain and the veins of black iron, shimmering like blood in the dark, that ran through the rock. The dwarves of the Reach mined the material which they called the Blood of the Dark Lord, it was brutal work but when mined and processed correctly, it would make the best weapons and armor. Dari had smiled and claimed that not even true Mithril armor could compare. Thorin had not corrected him; he could see the fierce pride in his people’s works in his companion._

_That evening they had left the labyrinth and stood on an icy ridge, seeing the light of the watchtowers on the ridge beyond. Crossing the cold waste of ice was harder on Thorin than the tunnels had been, but Dari guided him safely, looking out for him until they finally stood back on the gates of the Reach. Thorin’s grandfather had embraced him, glad he was alive. He had a good few words of thanks to Dari, but the warrior had quickly vanished into the crowd. It was Thorin’s only visit to the Reach but he had never forgotten it._

_Fifteen years later Thorin became 60 and was formally presented as a Prince to his people. Many houses presented their sons to him, offering service. It was a tradition to do that and not one that was reserved for nobility alone. Every house may offer one of their sons to serve a Prince, whether or not this service would be accepted, was an entirely different matter. In practice most of those offering would be from high houses and a few lesser houses ambitious enough to rub shoulders with nobility. Thrain had lectured Thorin all night on whom not offend, and on which house might prove worthy, because while he would be present, it was Thorin who would make the choices._

_Thorin knew he was trying Thrain’s patience, because the choices he was making were not the ones his father wished for. He had already politely refused two houses his father especially recommended. He simply disliked those, and he would not suffer them among his entourage. Luckily it was nearly done. He had chosen a healer, a scribe, and six of the seven required personal guards, which would be led by Dwalin son of Fundin. One spot was still open and he dismissed another whom his father had highly recommended. A small commotion happened at the hall’s entrance; it seemed that there were a few more candidates. Dwarven law was quite specific, on the day of presentation, every house, every family, no matter how high or low, may present one of their sons to the Prince and ask to serve. The guards could not send anyone away, but such late arrivals happened rarely. “Let them step forward,” Thror announced form his throne._

_Two blond figures walked across the long walkway approaching the throne hall. Thorin’s eyes widened, they had to be from the Reach. One was a woman in simple, practical clothing wearing a long cloak, the other was a warrior in leather armor. When they approached he knelt, both knees as befitted a commoner presenting himself, head down, the gold mane obscuring his face. The woman bowed low. “I am Frea, standing for Skadi, Dari’s mother who cannot be here; I present my son to serve the high house.”_

_Thorin could tell his father was short of a rant, and only good manners held him back, but Thror smiled from his throne. “It has been a long time since the Reach has sent someone to serve our House, and we are glad to see the love the Reach bears for us.” He announced, signaling his approval of the offer, whether it was accepted or rejected._

_“Look at me,” Thorin commanded the kneeling dwarf._

_Dari looked up at him, his sea-green eyes not giving anything away, no fear, no nerves, just calm and a small smile, which remained invisible for those standing farther away._

_“I have need of a warrior for my personal guard,” Thorin announced. “Present your weapon if you dare and bind yourself to our house.”_

The memories faded away, and Thorin found he could smile at Fili. The young warrior would always remind him of Dari, the same blond mane, the same fierce loyalty, the same care for others… only that he had the blue eyes of Durin’s house. Thorin did not make the mistake to mix them up, Fili was a man in his own right, but he bore such resemblance to his father.

 

“So he became part of your personal guard?” Fili asked, smiling back at him. He probably had never heard so many new things about his father. “But… did he not miss his homeland?”

 

“Aye, he became part of my guard, Dwalin and him the only two who remained true after we lost Erebor.” Thorin told him. “Dari’s help was invaluable when we had to survive in the wilds and later to cross the Misty Mountains, but my grandfather had been right, his years with us were paid for with always being homesick for the snows. He rarely showed it, but he loved it when we crossed the Misty Mountains.”

 

It all made sense to him now why he loved winter so much, why he had always been driven to wander Eriador when the cold time began. Something in him that he had never known was there, and longed for the cold. “What became of the people in the Reach?” Fili asked, wondering. He had never seen blond dwarves except for himself.

 

“They fell victim to the dragon’s attack most likely,” Thorin sighed. “We never knew what became of them, Fili. If they escaped, we never met them. But up there on the heights, they were exposed to the Dragon’s first attack. I once asked your father whether he wondered, or worried for them, for his brother and all the others left behind. And he said, he did not, he knew in his heart that they might still be out there. _And I do trust them to go on until we can return._ Much like you with Kili.”

 

Fili’s eyes went out into the dark. “They are alive, somewhere out there, I can feel it.” He said softly. “And I will trust them to make it back to us.”

 

Such hope, such a bright light. Thorin put his arm around his nephew, like he had done when he was smaller on their countless travels. Fili leaned against him. Regardless of darkness and danger outside Beorn’s house, Uncle and Nephew finally found some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note
> 
> The wonderful harrylee94 will roll her eyes about another repeated line of thanks for reading and input. THANKS!! Your rock.  
> Canon mixes can be a mess. As the Hobbit Movie and the Books follow a different timeline, regarding events and Thorin’s age, I have decided on a mix, mainly creating my own timeline version. This is a rough outline with amended dates that I am using so far.
> 
> 2768 TA - Thorin born  
> 2839 TA - Thorin's Age: 61 - Smaug attacks Erebor  
> 2876 TA - Thorin's Age: 98 - Battle of Azanulbizar  
> 2941 TA - Thorin's Age: 173 - Quest for Erebor


	13. A Raven in flight

Dawn graced the eastern horizon with the first rays of light when they reached the small river, Kili hardly able to stand, the strength that had carried him through the battle under the mountain finally burning out. Dwalin caught the younger dwarf when he collapsed. “Boromir!” he called out to their companion who had scouted ahead. “Day is coming; I think it’s safe to stop now.”

 

The human warrior turned and came back to them, one glance at Kili who had struggled back to his feet, and now stood, though supported by Dwalin, spoke for itself.  “I can go on,” Kili said bravely, he was pale, the wounds and shock finally taking its toll.

 

“No,” Dwalin grumbled. “We can camp here. Sit down on the rocks by the stream, I’ll build a fire.” The older dwarf spoke with the authority of a much older friend. “No discussion, Kili, you will need your strength to heal.”

 

When the young dwarf followed his instructions, Dwalin walked a few steps with Boromir. “I can build a fire, and there’ll be fish in this stream, but we have nothing to treat Kili’s injuries with. The lashes will fester soon enough…”

 

“It’s summer; we can find something for them.” Boromir said. “We may not be healers, but I do recall a lot of what Kili uses during travels.”

 

Dwalin looked at him strangely. “Good. You do that; I’ll take care of camp.” The old warrior and former mercenary had often been forced to survive with whatever he had on his body and he agreed with Boromir that during the middle of summer it would not be too hard.

 

Knowing Kili was in good hands the Gondorian walked upstream. Dreambane grew close to rivers, and it worked well against fever and pain, he recalled. But to prevent the wounds from festering… what had that horrible weed been Aragorn had been so fond of? The one that smelled so sickly sweet, he had used it in the houses of healing, and also to help Frodo when he had been stabbed by that Morgul Blade. During their travel south the Ranger had used it more than once to treat cuts, injuries and a wolf bite. Boromir could not recall the name but he recognized the plant well, growing in the sunny spots. The same white flowered plant, Boromir had seen the Ranger harvest and use and Thorongil had been a competent healer. Taking the clean throwing knife concealed in his boot, Boromir cut off the flowers of the weed, along with the long leaves that he had seen Aragorn use. He also found some dreambane and elfroot, both would come in handy.

 

By the time he returned to camp, Dwalin had gotten a fire to burn, with some fish roasting on sticks. The dwarf handed Boromir a stone that the water had washed out into the shape of a flat bowl and another stone that might serve as a pestle. “We won’t be able to heat great amounts of water at once, but enough to begin with.” He said, pointing to the side of the fire.

 

Boromir nearly laughed. Like him Dwalin had managed to hang onto a few things and their steel mugs had been among them. Both sat in the glowing embers, filled with water to heat. “Thank you, Dwalin, that helps a lot.”

 

The older warrior barked a laugh. “If you know what to do with all these weeds…” He pointed at the herbs the Gondorian had gathered.

 

“I’ve seen it done often enough,” Boromir replied, sitting down with the stones. He knew the herbs had to be grounded with a little water into a paste that would be mixed with scalding water before used on the wounds. He was not quite sure whether Thorongil had used both flowers and leaves of this herb, though.

 

“Oh, I can’t watch you do that,” Kili said while reaching for the herbs. “Give it here, you look at those poor herbs like you want to make salad of them.” The young dwarf quickly sorted the plants, and then gently took the athelas plucking the flowers and some leaves to grind them, before mixing them with a little water and the grounded elfroot.

 

“Good choice of herbs, Boromir, but the dreambane needs to go into extra water and I am not sure if any of us wants something that strong. A dose of a ripe umbel is enough to send any dwarf sleeping for a day or two.” With steady hands he began to grind the herbs with the stones, putting a bit of hot water on them before continuing. A soft smell rose from the concoction.

 

“I always thought that weed would smell much stronger,” Boromir recalled how strong it had smelled when Thorongil had used it; he had always found it sickly sweet.

 

“Unless you have seen it in the hands of one of your kings of old, I don’t know how,” Kili replied. “athelas is a good herb but it is said that it will yield its full power only to the hands of the royal house of Numenór.” Kingsfoil could help to clean a wound, and he was glad Boromir had remembered the knowledge of his people, but it would not do much more beyond that, in spite of being fabled.

 

Boromir did not reply directly to that, he had always known Thorongil was a competent healer, and he had been there in the houses of healing, he had seen him call people back from the brink of death. But he had never quite attributed that to the royal line. Maybe his old rivalry with the man had evaporated and he was able to see clearer now. “Will that help your injuries?”

 

“Yes, it will clean them and allow them to heal without ferstering.” Kili put the stone with the hot paste on the ground; he could not apply it for himself, as the lashes were on his back.

 

Dwalin exchanged a glance with Boromir, the man had a lighter touch than the old dwarven warrior. The Gondorian understood what the dwarf was silently telling him. “Let me see your back, Kili.” He said, taking the stone.

 

Kili discarded his bloodied coat exposing his back. It was marred with criss-crossing lashes, blood had smeared them, and the brand on his shoulder blade had taken an angry red color. Dwalin watched, as Boromir began to treat the injuries, Kili sitting unmovingly, if he felt pain he did not show it. His dark eyes went past them, wherever he might be in his thoughts, Dwalin could only guess. “Lad, you couldn’t have done anything for Ori,” Dwalin said, guessing that Kili, like Thorin, tended to beat himself up over people he lost. “T’was bad luck that he fell like that.” And Ori had not been able to control his fall like the three warriors had, but Dwalin did not say that out loud.

 

“Dwalin,” Kili actually looked up, his dark eyes were troubled, shaken, but free of tears. “I appreciate what you are doing, but… I need to think this through. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

 

It was a new tone from the young warrior, Dwalin thought, no, from the young Prince, he correct himself. Dwalin had seen this same in Thorin, when the darven leader wished to be left alone, over the years Thorin had perfected that stare that drove most others away. The bald dwarf gave a curt nod, signaling understanding and fell into silence.

 

Boromir had watched the exchange, recognizing that tone of voice; he had not expected to hear it yet. But this was Kili Ravenswing who had just spoken, like always he had approached Dwalin with respect, asking for the distance he needed, rather than demanding it, but it was a request that would be followed. Once he was finished with the injuries he left Kili alone, advising him to get some rest.

 

ADL

 

Kili lay awake on his coat, it was unusual for him to lie half naked, but this way the salve would have the best chance to work on his marred back. He had rested his head on his arms, pretending to sleep, while Boromir had taken first watch. Dwalin lay asleep on the other side of the fire, snoring softly. The young dwarf could not sleep; the events in the caverns under the mountains were still too vivid. He knew he could close his eyes without reliving the torture; his own pain was insignificant to what had happened to Ori. Kili knew he could not have done anything for the young scribe, nothing at all. Still, from the moment they had been separated from the others, Ori had become his responsibility. There was no shying away from that.

 

He sighed softly. Until this summer he had always been allowed to hide behind his big brother, his Uncle, and Mister Dwalin, they had shielded him, protected him. But with Thorin’s announcement before they had left this was over, he had to take responsibility for the others, try to live up to their expectations. Again he thought of Ori… he knew Ori had heard him, had been aware that he was there, but he had been afraid. It had been clear in his eyes, when he had seen the dagger in Kili’s hand. Kili would never share what had been said between them in those final moments, and he hoped that Ori would find peace in Mahal’s halls.

 

He had to stop thinking about Ori, he told himself. Mourning the dead must never take precedence over the care for the living. And there was a lot to care about right now. They were stranded somewhere east of the mountains and had to find the others. _Think, Kili_ , he told himself. Thorin had planned to cross Mirkwood, the only way to do that was the old Mirkwood road, to reach that they would have to cross the river at one of the old fords. There were two of them on Northern Anduin, one near the High Pass Road, and the other where the old Framsburg road met the river. High Pass Road then, Thorin would aim for that way, because it connected to the Mirkwood road.

 

His hand went to his belt, while they had lost most of their packs, they still had what was on their bodies. He fingered the pouch on the belt, forming a tentative plan. Head north and find a village or settlement in Anduin valley. If he managed to fence off the contents of the pouch they could buy ponies and catch up with the others. Not much of a plan, but all he could think of.

 

The restless thoughts accompanied Kili for hours, until noon, when Boromir woke Dwalin for change of watch. In the drowsy heat of the summer day Kili finally found some sleep.

 

_He was in a dungeon, chains holding his arms up, he was barely able to stand. His body wracked with pain. Someone, an old man doused him with a load of water to wake him. In the dark liquid of the bucket he could see his own face, mirrored on the surface. An older, grim face, framed by dark hair with grey streaks._

_“It is the manner of dying that makes the difference,” The old man said, eying him like a hawk might look at a mouse. “tell me, how did you ensnare my son into your spells? How did you make him forget his loyalty to me? You shall give up your secret before you beg to die.”_

_“Every man can die only once,” Kili told him. “whether he is guilty or not.” He knew this man, he knew why the old man hated him so. Something that Kili had done and that the old man was not forgiving, but he could not remember what it was, what had happened._

_“You were not quite as… brash… when the Goblin King had you,” the old man observed softly “and this wasn’t even the first time was it? Only the first others saw. What a weak impression you must have made against the… what did he name it?... the bonebreaker?”_

_With his bare hand he touched the dwarf’s broad chest, and sheer agony ran through Kili's body. He bit his lip, he would not scream, he'd not give his enemy that victory. The pain came and came again, a touch of the aged hand all it took, to flay every inch of his body with sheer unadulterated pain._

_“The bone-breaker,” the old man said softly “I never seem to quite remember that entire story…”_

_The old man approached the dwarf again. "I was told that they used knives to carve into your skin, here," the old man's hand touched the dwarf's shoulder blades, a searing pain mingling with the memory of what had been done then. "of course they did lash you, they always do, don't they. I never can quite understand why." he circled Kili again. "and then they brought the bonebreaker... not a hammer, but a saw. A vile rusty saw to sever your bones in the shoulder," he touched the place where a speckled scar ran across Kili's strong shoulder. "And as you screamed your agony into the darkness, your Uncle watched... your King left you to suffer alone."_

_The pain returned, remembered pain and new pain mingled into one blaze of agony that stripped him of any control. He could not tell when the brands had been brought, between the screams and the pain everything else had faded._

_The glowing seals were burning into his hands and the old man's vile touch sent even worse pain through his entire body. “You will tell me how you enchanted my son, and how to break your bane on him.” The Steward demanded. Kili could not say how he knew that title, but a distant part of his mind knew that this title and this man came together. “And you will beg for my forgiveness before I permit your death.”_

_He would not give in. Never let the pain be stronger than you. He had lived by this rule for decades now and pain had become an old friend, one that he might not necessarily like to see, but that would find him time and again. It was alright, pain was the whip to remind him he was still alive.  “If I ever were to do this, it was me whom I could not forgive,” Kili’s voice was rough; the words came out in gasps._

_"Enough!" A familiar voice bellowed, and he saw Boromir storm into the dungeon, sword in hand. He was followed by a man of similar looks... his brother, Kili somehow knew._

_The old man turned around, his face falling. “My son…” he whispered. “he stole you from me… he stole your love, your loyalty.” With one fluent move the Steward drew his own sword, advancing towards his son. “I will not allow him to corrupt you.”_

_Horrified Kili watched father and son fight, accusations flying back and forth between them, and there was no doubt that Boromir was the superior swordsman here. When Denethor - that was the old man's name! - called Kili an Orc slave, he could see sheer rage rise in the human warrior. Beyond the horror and pain, Kili was shocked and touched how quickly his friend jumped to his defense, and with what violent rage he went after Denethor. "Boromir! You will not kill him!" Kili had never used this tone of voice, the clear command that would be obeyed, on his friend, but here and now he did. He would not have him kill his own father, not over something like this._

_The events spiraled out of control, he could not prevent it and Denethor's dagger embedded itself in his younger son's chest._

 

“Faramir!” Kili woke with a yell, panting, his entire body shaking still, remembered pain and fresh pain from the welts mingling.

 

“Kili! Are you alright?” his scream had woken Boromir who was on his feet hurrying over to him, Dwalin had been startled in his watch, the dwarf stood axe ready to fight.

 

“I… I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you.” Kili replied, still dazed. What had he just seen? It had been so real, so very real. An echo of the pain he still could feel. The searing iron in his hands… looking down his eyes widened; his palms shone with the glossy dark mark of a raven’s wing in each hand.

 

“It doesn’t sound like nothing, lad,” Dwalin said, he too had come close and had been the first to see the wings. “Your hands… what happened? And what was that name you called out? Faramir?”

 

“Boromir’s brother,” Kili replied, the pain ebbing off a little. He still did not understand all that had just transpired, but a dreadful calm, a weight seemed to settle on him, crushing his soul. “At least I think it was.” He looked up to the human warrior, he looked nearly like in Kili’s dream, except for a scar on the jawline that had not been there and other small differences. Suddenly Kili realized that the man who had stormed into the dungeon had not had the dragon mark. How was this even possible? What had he dreamt? No, it had been no dream, but something much deeper and much more terrible. He wished he could discard it as a dream, a nightmare brought on by the events in Goblin Town. Much as he wanted to lie down and try to reason this out, he knew he could not.

 

“It was,” Boromir confirmed the question softly, shocked, colour draining from his face. Kili could feel turmoil from him in the bond, and he looked at him, like searching for something in his eyes, that was not there.

 

While Boromir kept a stony façade on the outside, Kili could sense the storm of emotions held within, unease, fears and others coiled together to something that was hard to bear. Deep beyond all that was fear, a fear that Kili could not quite identify, but it was strong. A fear to break their friendship, to fail on this mission – whatever his mission might be. Kili reached out, touching the warrior’s arm. “Sit,” he said in friendly tones, encouragingly. “we need to talk. Dwalin, stay too.”

 

They sat down by the low burning fire, afternoon had come with a lower sun and the drowsy heat emanated from the stones by the river. There was a soft wind from the mountain still, rustling the leaves that kept the heat from becoming unbearable. For a while Kili wondered how to begin, how to find the right words for the questions he had. Honesty, he decided, directness without any traps or tricks. “I learned your brother’s name through a dream… I am not even sure it was a dream, but something that came through the bond.” He began. “I was captive in a dungeon, your father interrogating me…”

 

Boromir’s green eyes widened, it was easy to see he knew the events that Kili was speaking of. “You remember that, do you?” Kili asked, not trying to poke at painful things, but if Boromir knew of his dream, then he remembered an event that Kili most certainly did not. “Your father was there as was your brother, and yet… you said truthfully that you had no family. I could feel back then that it was true… and it still is.” He knew that he was treading painful grounds and while needed answers he would not make this any more painful than necessary. He knew Boromir had been truthful with him so far, but on the same time he had not… or he had kept quiet about a lot.

 

The Gondorian tensed, his shoulders hunched, like he had been trapped. And trapped he was. Boromir knew there was no way out this time. Not without directly lying to Kili. It was a line a could not cross. He had evaded questions, or not answered things but he had never truly lied. And he would not, it would mean breaking his oath, it would mean betraying a friend. And if Kili had seen what he just mentioned… Boromir did not know how to explain it al all.

 

“It is true because…” Boromir looked past Kili at the fire. “Because I should not be here, I will not be born for another 40 years. To return here, I had to cut off all ties that bound me, save my oath to you.”

 

Disbelief and shock warred in Kili, while Boromir’s words were the stark bones of an answer, he could feel their absolute truth, the bond would never allow them to lie to each other. But if he had not been born yet… how was this possible. Then a sudden realization hit him. “The bond…” Kili could not claim to understand it yet, but he began to get a glimpse at something great and terrible here. “That’s why it appeared the moment we met. If you swore an oath to me at some point and it was in this world and the next…”

 

“…as long as the world endures,” Boromir had never even considered that swearing like this would reassert itself in this way. The world still endured and what did it matter in the eyes of Eru and Mahal that he had sworn that oath in another time? Loyalty was eternal, once given it held true, no matter how winding the path.

 

The human warrior looked at the dwarven Prince. Kili was shocked, his face had become a mask, but his dark eyes bespoke his state of mind. And there were many in them. Boromir averted his eyes, in the twenty years they had fought side by side, they sometimes debated, sometimes even clashed, but there had never been doubt or distrust between them and he found it harder to bear than anything else.

 

“But why?” Kili asked him. “Why would you do this to yourself, giving up your home, your family…?” He did not question the how; there was powerful magic in the world. And while he had never heard of something like this, he was sure it existed. If there was magic to make stones of light and forge rings of terrible power, swords that would keep their wearers alive and other things, then there probably was the magic that would traverse time and fate, if you took the time to find it.

 

 _Because you have been my brother for twenty years, closer than what was left of my family, and you were my King._ “It was the only way,” Boromir spoke slowly, still not looking at Kili. “there was no other option. The curse found you during this journey, and with the seven passed beyond reach and memory, it could only be broken this way.”

 

“You came back to protect me from the Bane?” From the time he had been small Kili had been instructed on the secrets of Durin’s line. He knew of the curse that had befallen the family, how they had evaded it at times and how it ultimately had always gotten to them. “We… my family never found a way to do that in generations.”

 

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed. “At first we did not know what we were looking at, you kept it a secret to protect your people. But eventually we found that the curse can only be broken here, now that the first of the seven has left your house. But there is one place the curse still lingers…”

 

“The hoard,” Kili said, catching on, dwarves prided themselves in passing on the stories of old, and the older the family the more secrets and stories of old were handed down to the young ones; and he could put the lore together quickly enough. “by the curse it was made, by the curse it will be taken… and we wondered how we got the dragon down on us.”

 

Boromir looked at him startled, that grim assessment was something he had come to associate with the older Kili. There was a change in the young dwarf Prince, something that was hard to name if you never had met Kili Ravenswing.

 

Kili’s eyes fell to his arm where the dragonmark was shining. The oath had placed it there, no hint of fate or destiny and still it had managed to uproot his life quite effectively. “I guess I was not the one to kill the dragon the first time? Nor anyone else of the family?” It would help the curse to take root, claiming a hoard you had not conquered for yourself.

 

“No, the dragon attacked a settlement and was killed by sheer accident and good luck.” Boromir would not belittle Bard’s shot at the beast, the man had kept his nerves under fire, but it had been a stroke of luck that he had been able to see the weak spot and pull off that shot.

 

 _No fate, nor destiny charts the path of us, but the storm will find us and we must ride it. It will either carry us to the heights or plunge us into a pit. If you don’t dare the storm, you are not of Durin’s blood._ Kili recalled Dis telling him that when he had been small and afraid. He rose to his feet and walked away from camp, needing to calm himself. His back ached when he moved and he ignored it. It was only a few steps to the rushing stream, walking on the stones by the water, Kili tried to calm himself. No matter how the dragonmark had come to him, even as it had never been a mark of destiny, the others expected him to kill the dragon. The very thought made his stomach clench. Even Thorin had stood no chance against the beast… and he, Kili, was supposed to take on that creature?

 

He raised his hands in front of himself, willing them to stop shaking. Breathing out slowly, Kili stilled, pushing the fear out of his mind. He was of Durin’s line, he did not show fear and he would damn well not run. If he had to fight a dragon, then he would have to think of something. Boromir had said an archer killed the beast; maybe that was the solution then. This was the storm Dis had spoken of and he would have to dare fly with it, either he would be crushed or come out on top. No more small Kili, no hiding behind others. He was on his own now, it was his task to protect others, to fight for them. _Fighting the battles others can’t._ He recalled an aged voice telling him, he could not fit a face with it, only a pair of eyes and a vague sense of warmth. But the voice had a name, scarce as the memories were. Thror, his great-grandfather. _I will do it, great-father,_ Kili thought. _I will do it, or die trying._

 

“My Lord?”

 

Kili did not need to turn around to know it was Boromir, his step was easily to distinguish from Dwalin’s. For a moment the young dwarf was grateful he stood with his back to the warrior. Boromir had not approached him as a friend, or vaguely a leader, but as a warrior would approach the Prince he served. It was another role Kili would have to accept, much as he would not allow himself to lose his closest friends over that. “I am alright, Boromir,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I only needed a moment to truly understand the scope of this.”

 

He could sense tension rising in the bond, pain too, and a well-schooled control of emotions. “I can only beg your forgiveness for deceiving you…”

 

Kili whirled around, to face the Gondorian. He knew why this brave warrior had risked coming here, why he had given up his life, or at least the mission he had done it for, but why anyone would take such a burden on themselves was something he could only begin grasp.

 

He reached up, to clasp Boromir’s shoulders, making him look at him. “Forgiveness? Boromir, I do not know what I did in my life to deserve such loyalty as you have shown me. I am glad and grateful you are here. And I promise you I will make the best of the chance you have given me.”

 

They embraced, Kili heedless of his injured back, no matter the pain, he felt complete. He had never known what he had missed. The few glimpses of Boromir’s memories had not been conclusive or connected at all and he did not want to know. They would go from here and chart their own path. But he had found his brother again, and with that he could face whatever fate threw at him.

 

ADL

 

They had returned to the fire, sitting down together. “Your brother, what happened to him?” Kili asked. “The last I saw in the dream was that dagger…” He hoped that Boromir had not lost his brother that day.

 

It was the strangest thing that Kili would not remember how he had saved Faramir, how he had saved each of them at a time, Boromir thought. “He survived, thanks to you,” he said, knowing Kili should know how the mark had come into being. “you knew of this spell, you always said you learned it from a very secretive arcane smith living somewhere in the North, a Quenya spell, you had used it to save my life after I was nearly killed by Orcs in Amon Hen. When my brother lay dying, we used it together to heal him.”

 

“It was how the bond was born,” Kili may not know the spell but he understood the principal concepts working behind such things. No one became an arcane smith without getting the basics drilled into their heard and Thorin had never been forgiving when it came to that. “Our lives touched on a level that could not be severed. Did your brother share the bond too?”

 

“He did, but he never delved much into it,” Boromir said. “Faramir had a full life, a loving wife, children, and his duties to his king. He once told me that he preferred not to share whatever heroics we two got up to.”

 

This had Kili very nearly smile. It sounded so much more relaxed, so much like a side of Boromir that he usually did not show. He did not wish to know all that had happened, most seers considered themselves cursed to know the future and for good reason. He did not want to fall into the trap of believing things should happen… it was their own path from here onward.

 

He raised his hands so Boromir could see the palms. “Do you know these?” he asked, having the feeling that Boromir had been less surprised by their appearance.

 

“When the spell healed Faramir, it also healed you, instead of the brands on your hands those appeared.” Boromir told him.

 

Another thing came to Kili, something he had noticed while they escaped, but only now found the time to piece together. “That song… the battle song you sang while we fought our away out of the caves,” he said. “I heard it before. When the Goblins…” he would face it bravely, they may have put the slavemark on him, but he would never allow it to cow him. “When they branded me, I saw something. I was suddenly in that dark shaft, climbing towards the light, down below me was a man, fighting the Orcs. He sang the same song, while I climbed up, out of Minas Morgul.”

 

“Laddie, no one ever escaped the dungeons of Minas Morgul,” Dwalin said. “no one gets out there alive.”

 

Kili looked at Boromir. “That was you, wasn’t it? Climbing towards the light?”

 

The Gondorian shivered, he had not been aware Kili had seen that, while it sure was the pain that could make him remember. “Idráin gave his life so I could escape. He tracked them after I got captured; he made his way through the Mountains of Shadow and into Minas Morgul. I still shudder at the risks he took and at the price he paid to even reach me. But when he did, it became apparent we would not escape. Those dungeons… they deserve every bit of their reputation.”

 

“But you got out.” Kili asked anew.

 

“Because he stayed behind and fought, he created such a ruckus, fought such a battle that they realized only much later that I was gone. He sacrificed himself so I might live.” Boromir drew in his legs, leaning his arms on them. It was an old memory, but it had been the first time that one of their people had deemed his own life of less worth than Boromir’s. It was a sacrifice hard to accept and harder to live up to.

 

“To get into Minas Morgul he must have been very good.” Dwalin observed. “That dread city is a place guarded by much worse than Orcs and I’ve talked to a few Easterlings who knew it.”

 

“He was more than good, one of the best Rangers I ever knew.” Boromir replied. “His son took after him a lot.” It had been another aspect of the long war that he could not explain to his friends. How many soldiers of Gondor had fallen, how many mothers had kept the swords and bows against the day they would send their sons to join the battle? Many? Idráin’s son had been eight when his father died, ten years down the road he had been a fine aspiring ranger and another six year after Boromir would send him on a mission that would consign him to a similar grueling captivity.

 

He felt Kili’s hand on his wrist. “Too many memories, is it?” The dwarf asked with a new, gentle understanding.

 

“No bad memories.” Boromir told him, pushing them back. This was not the time to let his mind wander. He had to let go of all that was done and gone. There was no use any more to cling to the past, not with them and an uncharted path ahead. “We should pack up camp; it won’t be safe to stay here once night falls.” He said.

 

Kili nodded in agreement. “If we move swiftly we can reach the Anduin before morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> With a lot of thanks to Harrylee94 who helped me with all the talky aspects of this chapter. What would I do without you.
> 
> I know… lots of more talking and little action… but they will get to Beorn’s the next chapter.


	14. The Irrevocable Words

Fili was glad to see Thorin was able to walk with ease again. The week they had been allowed the rest at Beorn’s house had allowed their wounds to heal and their strength to return. Like some of the others Fili had tried to make himself useful around the house during the daytime, but Beorn would have nothing of it. “You lost enough to those Goblins,” the big man had said the second morning. “you rest and heal.” But now they were healed well enough to travel on, by next morning they would continue on their path. And he could not stop standing here outside the house and look towards the mountains. Where was Kili? Something inside him, in his heart, told him his brother was out there, and he wondered if his brother was alright. Then his eyes found Thorin and Fili smiled a little as he approached him. His Uncle needed him, needed him strong and reliable. He would trust Kili and the others to do fine on their own.

 

“Thorin, Fili!” Beorn came up the path that led to his house; the bear-man was accompanied by a youth of his kind, a red-haired boy of about fourteen summers. “This lad just told me an interesting story, one that you might like to hear.”

 

Thorin would have preferred to just talk to Fili, but Beorn had been a most gracious host and the boy by his side looked excited and eager. The dwarven leader did not find it in himself to rebuff the teen as he might have done with an adult. “What is your name, young messenger?” he asked.

 

“Halfbran,” the youth replied, standing much taller with the attention. “I came to tell Beorn that a warrior and two dwarves passed through my village on their way north. They are looking for your company, Lord Oakenshield. We were not sure if they were your enemies and sent them away, but the Woodlander trader on the other side of the river sold them some horses for some golden clasp or pin of sorts.” The boy was clearly disgusted by the Woodlander’s greed for gold. “And my father Grimbran sent me up the river to warn you.”

 

“Three?” Thorin’s asked, his heart clenching. A man, two dwarves… one of them had not made it. Who of them had not made it? Ori? He had been the youngest, least experienced; in the fight that must have ensued he would have been at a disadvantage. Kili? He had already been injured. No, the golden clasp indicated that he was alive, Dis would be furious if she ever learned he sold that, but it told Thorin that Kili had not only been alive but also in full possession of his wits. Dwalin? He did not dare think it. Not Dwalin… let it not be his old friend.

 

“They were three,” Halfbran confirmed. “They came into our village after dark. My father mostly spoke with the man, a tall warrior from the south. He looked like he came upriver from Gondor. The dwarves did the dealings with the Woodlanders; we did not see much of them.” The boy sighed. “Father made sure that the ferry would not take them back, which will force them to take a detour of at least another day’s worth and I ran to warn you that they are after you.”

 

“No, Halfbran, they are not after me. You brought me news of three of my men that I already believed dead.” He said. “You have my thanks. Hearing that they did not die in the Goblin Dens is glad tidings indeed.”

 

Beorn dismissed the boy with a clap on the shoulder, the lad darted off and the big man smiled after him. “My people are careful with strangers.” He said to Thorin. “and a man travelling with two dwarves would make them wonder.”

 

The dwarven leader understood all too well. The Beornings had to contend with the Stonefist dwarves in the mountains, who were allied with all kinds of nasty folk, even with Goblins. Thorin hated those traitors with a passion and he bore no anger for Beorn’s people that it had made them distrustful of dwarves. “That would be Boromir,” he said. “from what little your young friend could say he is the only one I can name.”

 

“Three out of four, your people must be mighty warriors indeed to have fought their way out of the deeps.” Beorn had gone back to the mountains the first night and seen the commotion and the goblins. It did not take much imagination to know what was going on underground.

 

“Beorn! They are here…” Halfbran pointed downhill to the path, where three riders approached. The boy was clearly surprised how the three had managed to catch up that swiftly.

 

Thorin’s eyes followed the direction the boy pointed in. There were three brown woodlander horses speeding up the hill, carrying familiar figures; one tall, clearly no dwarf, Boromir, the second smaller with long hair flying in the wind and a bow strapped to his back, Kili! And… a great iron clamp seemed to fall from Thorin’s heart when he saw the familiar bald figure in the saddle of the third horse. Dwalin. Like so many times before his friend had managed to kick death between the… teeth and return to him.

 

The riders brought their horses to stop when they reached Beorn’s house. Thorin saw Fili race past him, rushing towards his little brother. Kili jumped off his horse quickly, allowing Fili to grab him for a fierce hug. Both brothers held each other, but Thorin was surprised to see Kili being so calm, so in control. He had followed Fili without the rushing, to greet Dwalin with a short hug of his own. “I had feared it had been your last adventure, my friend.”

 

Dwalin gave him a short clap on the shoulder. “You did not expect me to leave the young Prince in trouble on his own, did you?” he asked gruffly. “Unfortunately the Goblins did not agree with our early departure, we had to give them the message in the only way they could understand.”

 

“Bashed right into their skulls.” Thorin knew this joke, it was an old one but having Dwalin here to crack it anew made it all the better.

 

Their short moment was broken up when the others come hurrying from the house, ahead of them Dori and Nori. The two had come running and stopped suddenly when they saw the group of three. “Where is Ori?” Dori asked. “Where is our brother?”

 

Thorin knew he should have asked right away, to learn what had happened, even as he already feared what the answer was.

 

Kili stepped away from his brother, taking something from the saddle of his horse before approaching the two waiting dwarf brothers. “Dori, Nori,” he addressed them both, calmly, his voice warm and compassionate. “I am grieved to bring you such ill tidings. Ori was severely injured when the bridge collapsed and died shortly after. He was very brave and he asked me to bring this to you.” Only now Thorin realized that the thing Kili held was the leather satchel that Ori had used to hold his book. The dwarven leader had expected Dwalin to explain or break the bad news, now he could not fail to notice the change in Kili.

 

“Dead?” Dori asked, disbelievingly. “Died of injuries? You left him behind did you? Left him so you could escape!” Anger rose in his voice. “You were against him coming and got rid of him when you could.”

 

Thorin was ready to step in, but Kili stood calmly and so firmly in the path of Dori’s anger that he felt it not necessary to intercede just yet. “Dori, when we left Ori was dead, even if Óin had been there, he would have stood no chance, the fall was too bad. He spoke of you before the end.”

 

This time Dori took the book but anger was still in his eyes when he glanced at Kili. “You left his body to the Goblins for eating then?” he was no less upset than before.

 

“It makes no difference, he is lying.” Nori interjected. “And he thinks he is so smart about it. It’s not the truth he is telling.”

 

“Nori!” Dwalin barked. “Some would consider it a mercy not to learn the painful details.” The warrior was angered by the brother’s behavior, trying to remind the other two whom they were talking to.

 

“Painful details indeed.” Dori snorted. “You would have saved your Princeling before anyone else. How come you all three survived the fall that killed him?”

 

“They were busy saving Kili and left Ori to rot,” Nori’s fist made hard impact with Kili’s shoulder as the dwarf attacked him, anger and pain clearly written on his face. “They only cared for you, precious thing. And you did not like our brother anyway, did you? And they cared more for the Orc plaything than for our Ori.”

 

In his rage the dwarven rogue managed to land a second hit, before Kili grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm backwards, bringing him down in one fluid motion. Suddenly Nori found himself on the ground, Kili’s left arm putting pressure on Nori’s throat. The black eyes were blazing at him with pain and hardly bridled anger. “Ori could not control his fall; he did not land on his feet and was impaled on a rock spike.” Kili’s voice was icy now. “He was in for a slow agonizing end, and with hundreds of Goblins rushing down on us, it was either us taking mercy at him or them tormenting his final hours. I made that choice and I do not have to answer to you for that. He was my responsibility, as you left him behind during the escape.” He rose, releasing his grip on Nori’s throat. “Had you trained him properly instead of spoiling him, he might have made it.” He said coldly before walking away. “Dwalin, Boromir, get the horses inside. We have inconvenienced Lord Beorn quite enough.”

 

Thorin had stood beside the scene, muzzling his own anger. Kili was handling this better and stronger than he had expected him to. Change was written all over him, a boy had entered the caverns below the mountains and a man had emerged, an irrevocable change wrought on him. His anger was not directed at his son, but at the two brothers of Ori. He had been willing to give their grief a lot of respect, but they had just crossed a line. No one called his son, the Prince of Durin’s folk, an Orc plaything, not called him out like this. “I will discount your attack on my son because of your grief, Nori.” He spoke, forcing himself to speak without snapping. “But with what you just said, I will not have you among my company any longer. Balin, if they still have their contracts see them burned, they are released from their obligations.”

 

“Thorin…” Dori began but the Dwarven King had already turned and left them standing.

 

Dwalin, who had been grabbing the reins of Kili’s horse to lead it away cast an icy glance at the two. “You are very lucky,” he grumbled. “I would cut you to pieces for what you just did, but my Prince would not allow it. Begone.”

 

ADL

 

Fili found his brother at the stables, brushing the horse he had ridden on his way here. It was so like Kili to find some work when he was angry. He probably missed having a forge and a hammer at this moment. The blond dwarf had actually asked Balin for a few hours to sort this, before any contracts were burned. But like so often in this family no one seemed willing to talk and try to mend fences. Fili sighed, Kili was so much alike Dis and Thorin in pride and temper. He loved them all three for it, he loved their fiery anger, their stubborn willful pride and their possessive love of those few they called friends, but sometimes he wanted to shake them. “Kili, can we talk?” he asked, seeing his brother was still busy giving the woodlander horse a truly royal treatment.

 

“Sure,” Kili said, without interrupting his work. “I am sorry I walked off like this, brother but I needed to cool my heels, before really taking it out on someone who had no fault in this.”

 

“I’d rather you rage at me, than just walking off,” Fili said. “It’s not like you were ever fast enough to really hit me, little bro.”

 

Now Kili put the brush aside and turned to him. “Never,” he said. “I won’t hurt my friends just to let my temper out, I will have to learn to control it better, I can’t go about flying into rages.”

 

“You never hurt me,” Fili said, surprised on how much control Kili displayed. What had happened to him? “even when you were screaming at me with rage because Uncle Thorin had your hide for something.”

 

The memory made Kili smile a little. “I am not that child anymore, brother. I can’t be that boy any longer… and while you were always there to take the brunt of my anger,” he closed the gap between them and put a hand on Fili’s shoulder. “I’d rather not unjustly berate you anymore. You are my brother.”

 

“You were very hard on Nori,” Fili began. “I won’t justify what he said… but you were very hard on him. And you were not telling something… much as you tried to hide it behind well-chosen words.”

 

The brunette shook his head. “I spared them the gruesome details, and while I am willing to overlook the attack, because Nori was grieved, but he has to accept what happened before we continue.” He returned to brushing the horse, the way he worked the coat would be all shiny like it may have never looked before.

 

“What did happen, Kili?” Fili could see that his brother was carrying something with him, something that pained him and he did not allow himself to speak of it.  “What happened that you won’t tell them?”

 

Kili only shook his head. “I can’t Fili.” He told his brother. “I can’t.”

 

The blond dwarf stepped closer to give him a one-armed hug. “Of course you can. I will not repeat it to anyone. On my father’s blood, I swear it.”

 

Their eyes met and Kili saw the seriousness in Fili’s eyes. He had never said such a thing before and he meant it, he would share the secret and keep it silent. Suddenly the young Prince felt exhausted his heart empty. “I said the truth, Fili, Ori could not control his fall like we others did, we all landed on our feet, Dwalin pushing me away from the cave wall, or I’d have another scratch to show for it. But Ori… he landed on his back, even on normal rock ground he might have smashed his spine, but… he was impaled on a rock spike, right through midriff and lower chest. He was dying and in agony…”

 

Fili could see the cruel choice that had befallen the three others and Kili having to take the responsibility. “You spared him more suffering.” He said, wondering what the big secret was. “He would have been grateful for that.”

 

“No,” Kili said. “he… he was not ready, Fili, not for any of this.” He leaned a bit on Fili’s arm, just glad he was here. “Do you remember that first journey with Thorin, when we both were so afraid?” he asked suddenly.

 

“How could I forget?” Fili asked. “Instead of comforting you, he gave you that long dagger and told you that no one of Durin’s line was a coward, and that you would stand watch and fight to defend yourself like a dwarf should, otherwise you’d be a simpering piece of garbage. I was so furious at him, I actually screamed murder and hit him.”

 

“You did,” Kili well remembered his furious older brother, having a first class row with their Uncle. “But… Fili, Thorin was right. He did not coddle us, he did not pretend he would always be there to protect us, he did not say things would be fine. He gave us a blade and taught us to use it; he showed us how to deal with cruelties and how to stand on our own two feet. And… and Dwalin taught us how to face death.” It was not an idle boast, it had been the bald warrior who had journeyed with them to the gap of Rohan back that year that had taught them to face the fear, to look death in the eye and not flinch. If Thorin had taught them to be leaders, Dwalin had taught them how to stand strong. “They taught us strength, harsh as it may have been; they made sure we were ready. Ori wasn’t.”

 

Fili understood what his brother was saying, Thorin had loved them, given them a home and been there for them, but he had also shaped them much like a blacksmith shaped the blade on his anvil, and sometimes the blows of the hammer had been painful, but it had made them the dwarves they were today. “There was no shame to that, Ori was young.” He defended the scribe. “He was brave enough to come.”

 

“And I would not see his memory tarnished,” Kili replied. “Which is why I will never tell what happened when he died.” He straightened up. “He died bravely, facing the end as a dwarf should, speaking of his family at the very last.”

 

“Thorin wants to send Dori and Nori away for what they did,” Fili said. “And I do not condone what they said… calling you an…” he stopped, it was an unthinkable term Nori had used and there was no excuse for doing that. He wondered if he was even right trying to help them to stay with the company.

 

“Orc plaything.” Kili repeated the words with icy calm, like they could not touch him. “I will talk to Thorin, Fili. Does that meet with your approval?”

 

Fili’s heart clenched, when he suddenly found himself looking at a façade, from one moment to the next Kili had slipped into the stance of a warrior, a warrior prince even, and he still was willing to speak to Thorin, if only for Fili’s sake, because Fili had asked it of him. “I would be glad if you did,” he said honestly. “It would be cruel to send them away for words spoken in grief and anger. No one wants to be judged for the two or three most stupid things he ever said.”

 

ADL

 

Balin had heeded Fili’s request to wait, even as he did not see much hope in it. He knew his King too well, if Thorin made such a call he was rarely dissuaded. But it was not for him to say, not with Thorin’s nephew asking him. Fili was an alliance builder; often balancing the tempers of his family with the tempers of those who chose follow them. So he had seen to dissolving the whole crowd, sending them back to their preparations and asking Boromir to aid Bifur on something, the human warrior understood enough Khuzdul and Iglishmek to get along with Bifur. Thus he got a chance to talk to Dwalin alone.

 

The greeting of the brothers had been much less loud and obvious, in fact, with the way Thorin had greeted Dwalin when they arrived, one might have thought those two brothers, instead of Balin and Dwalin, who left it at a short clasp of forearms. This did not mean that Balin was not glad to see his brotherwas alive, he was happy to see him having come back from another hair-brained adventure unscathed and in one piece. Only Balin had always known that Dwalin’s life was given to another and would be sacrificed if necessary. He had seen his younger brother be trained for such a task from the time Dwalin could walk on his own. Their family had been of respected nobility at Erebor, not a major house but a house well respected. Their eldest brother Daroin had won his way into King Thror’s personal guard through sheer bravery and great deeds. Nearly seven decades older than Balin, Daroin had been something of their childhood hero, and a mentor. Balin had followed his footsteps to learn the ways of war, even as his talents ran more towards administration and the law, and he ultimately followed that call that would lead him to a seat on the Council of Justice in Erebor. When Dwalin had been small Balin had assumed that he would learn a craft, as would have been proper and a good way for a youngest son. But then, when Dwalin had been seventeen two things had happened, the first thing was the death of their father Fundin, who had died at the blessed age of 258 years. The very same year Prince Thorin had been born to Thrain and Thulfa.

 

Daroin had taken care of his brothers, encouraging Balin to continue his studies of the law, while he had taken Dwalin to train for war, to one day serve the young Prince. It was not unusual that such decisions were made early, because training for such a coveted position took years, but this had been different. From that day Dwalin had been trained for one task, and one alone, fighting for the royal house and his future Prince and Daroin had been a fierce, unforgiving mentor. Aside of fighting, weapons and strategy he had instilled a firm loyalty into Dwalin. When Thorin grew older and actually befriended Dwalin, unfitting a companion he seemed to make, Dwalin’s own heart had taken to that loyalty with an absolute devotion.

 

Balin had seen it, had known his brothers both would live and die at their King’s command, and he was at peace with that. Fretting, grudges or whining about such things were unworthy, it was something Daroin had taught him, first through words and example, and in the end through the brave end Daroin had found the day the dragon came. So when he and Dwalin greeted each other, there were no hugs or fierce embraces, just a friendly handclasp, signaling they both were fine and alive, having come through another deadly scrape. It was enough.

 

“Thorin should skin those two little bastards,” Dwalin grumbled, still not calm about events at their return. “They dishonor their brother’s memory the way they behave. What are they thinking?”

 

“They are hurt and pained, brother. They could not be there when Ori needed them and now they have lost him.” Balin reminded Dwalin gently. “Losing a brother is a cruel blow.”

 

Dwalin scoffed. “I can’t remember you wailing the day Daroin died,” he reminded Balin. “We said a blessing for him once we had the chance and went on.”

 

“Brother,” Balin could see that Dwalin was genuinely upset this time. He had always been something of an older friend or Uncle to Dis’ sons. Secretly Balin always wondered if Dwalin, who had forgone the comforts of family, found some semblance of it in the two boys, who had hero-worshipped the scarred warrior from childhood. But this was different, and Balin could not discern how. “We both knew Daroin’s life was given to his king, he died defending Thror and Erebor… we both knew that and had accepted it. It is different for Dori and Nori.”

 

“They joined the King’s quest against the dragon and did not know they signed up for death?” Dwalin shook his head. “The more the fools they are, it’s better we get rid of them here before we reach the mountain.”

 

“You do not believe we stand a chance,” Balin was surprised; it would be rare case when they judged a situation the same way. Usually Dwalin did not question Thorin’s decisions and would call any sign of doubt quitter-talk or defeatism.

 

His brother crossed his arms in front of his chest. “No, I did not say that. No son of Fundin signs up for fool’s errands, not even kingly ones. I believe it can be done… Mahal, I am sure our young Prince will bring down the beast, after what I saw in the shadow of the mountain I truly believe in him. But no dragon ever went down without extracting a price in blood. Smaug will die, brother, that damn lizard will feel the wrath of Durin’s blood.” True fire shone in Dwalin’s eyes. “But I do not believe that we all will still be standing when that battle ends and I am fine with that. If I die to see the dragon fall, I will smile at death.”

 

Understanding dawned for Balin, his brother was less upset with the brother’s pain but with their disrespect for Thorin’s heir. Now, that was quite the change. Not all that long ago Dwalin had called Kili an imp, who would be the death of this old warrior with his antics and Kili had called him “Mister Dwalin” in respect. But the journey under the mountains had changed them; he saw honest conviction in Dwalin’s eyes. His brother truly believed Kili could do this. Balin knew it would not do to ask his brother what had transpired, Dwalin had never been good at expressing his thoughts, let alone his feelings in such a manner. “Then we will have to wait what Fili can do for them with Thorin.”

 

ADL

 

Kili had washed up before finding Thorin. He still felt the welts on his back but most of them had scapped over by now and were healing well. He did not waste thoughts on them anymore. He was gladder he had found a number of thick leather bands which he had woven into a wristguard for his left arm, to protect against the hard impact of the steel bow string of the black bow. Using it unprotected during their flight had left him with enough marks there. He found Thorin outside, near the orchard where he had conversed with their host. Kili waited at a distance until their talk was done and then joined Thorin. “I am hearing you are dismissing Dori and Nori,” he observed.

 

“So Fili went to you,” Thorin’s stance shifted slightly, creating a distance. “He pleaded their case with me already.”

 

“If you made him truly plead, then it was more than they were worth,” Kili said dryly. “Still, I can’t help but agree with him. We can’t afford to lose two fighters; it is still a long way to Erebor.”

 

Thorin studied him shrewdly. “You do not agree with Fili, but you promised him to intercede with me for him.” He said directly. “You do this for him.”

 

“And if I were?” Kili shot back. “He is smarter at building alliances than we both are, he knows how to not alienate people, how to reconcile them and he has not one shred of our dratted haughtiness. We should listen to him.”

 

“You think I am haughty?” Thorin’s eyes narrowed slightly.

 

“We both are.” Kili said. “We’d rather tell someone to get lost, than make the effort to reconcile with them, we are choosey on whom we deem worthy of our esteem or even our camaraderie and those who fall short we’ll keep at a distance. Oh, we will do our damn duty, we don’t shirk work, but if I asked you if you’d take advice from Bombur or Bofur…”

 

“Only on mining, where Bofur is concerned and I think I would trust Bombur’s advice on food.” Thorin pointed out. “And I value them more than I may show, Kili. But Dori and Nori assume too much and they crossed a line. Just because they are illegitimately related to us, it does not give them the right to call you out… or use that word.”

 

Kili shrugged coldly. “It’s just words, spoken in anger and pain; it is my choice if I let it hurt me, or pay them any heed.”

 

“You would truly give them another chance?” Thorin asked, he still could see that Kili was doing this because his brother had asked it of him.

 

“Aye,” Kili said. “It will be a good thing to heal this company, best that we still can.”

 

Pride welled up in Thorin, not so much for Kili’s decision, he disliked the idea, but that Kili was willing to stand his ground, to have a matter discussed with him like a grown warrior. “Then let us go and put this matter to rest.”

 

Together Father and Son returned to the house where the others were assembled. Thorin’s glance found Dori and Nori, who looked ready for another round of confrontations. “I am not happy with your conduct earlier today,” he said evenly. “But I do understand that you are still grieving for the loss of Ori. If you wish to remain part of this company, you will be welcome.”

 

Dori pulled himself up to his full height. “You assume much, too much, Thorin.” He said coldly. “You would not rescind your words if not your little favorite had begged you to,” he cast a nasty glance to Fili, before Nori pushed two sets of contracts into Kili’s hands. “There, we don’t want them anymore. Cursed the day we signed up with you.” They walked past them and out, the door closing heavily behind them.

 

ADL

 

Evening found Fili outside the house, near the tripod with the burning remains of the contracts. The young dwarf was down heartened, he had pleaded with Thorin, talked Kili into speaking to Thorin against Kili’s own convictions… and all for nothing. He could understand their pride, but putting pride before so many more important things? No.

 

“It’s getting dark, Fili, you shouldn’t be out.” Bofur had come outside for him. The miner walked up to him, his eyes finding the tripod.

 

“They made their choice, Fili… they spoke the irrevocable words, much as you tried to save them. It happens sometimes, and it’s better to part ways than live with the hatred left and right.”

 

“You sound like you know,” Fili replied, hearing that Bofur was not trying to just comfort him.

 

“Aye, there aren’t many dwarves comfortable around Bifur, since he suffered the head injury. My brother and me have often wandered on; when we weren’t welcome any longer because Bifur was with us. Whenever we tried to stay, things got ugly. You tried to make this work, Fili, you were honorable. But they chose their path and it isn’t ours.”

 

Tiredly Fili smiled at him. “You are wise, Bofur.” He said as they turned to leave the fire alone.

 

“Wise, me?! No, way. I leave that to my betters,” Bofur teased him as he led him back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Thanks for Harrylee94 for patience, advice and reading all my early morning writings, even when I don’t know if they are any use.


	15. Whose woods these are I think I know

Bilbo’s stomach grumbled as he was trudging along with the line of dwarves walking on the path through the perpetual darkness of Mirkwood forest. It was the tenth day on their march through the oppressive forest and they had been on strictly rationed provisions from the start. Thorin had said that taking this path set them on a long march through the dark forests, and that they better stick to the path until they came out on the other side. The sooner the better in his opinion, not that there was any hope to soon be out of these woods. Every day Thorin would ask him to climb a tree and take a look across the woodlands, and Bilbo could never report anything but seeing an endless sea of trees stretching in every direction.

 

What got to Bilbo more than the dark forest or even the half rations that left him hungry most of the time was the silence. The dwarves were marching without speaking much, most of the time and when one began to complain, shout or chatter too much, Thorin would make a quick end to it. Their hope was to pass unnoticed, and that required silence. Usually Thorin was marching ahead of the column, along with Fili, followed by Óin and Gloin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur behind, with Bilbo next and Boromir with Kili at the end of the line, making sure no one got lost.

****

Walking so far at the end of the line had actually been Bilbo’s choice, even with the silence of their marching Kili and Boromir managed to have a smile or comforting nod for him every so often. Maybe he felt closer to the human warrior since he had helped him scorch Goblin Town.

 

The line came to an abrupt halt, Thorin and Fili had stopped. Bilbo peered past the others and saw they had come to a river, a black stream slowly gurgling through the woods. Boromir and Kili proceeded to join Thorin, the dwarf lightly nudging Bilbo to come with them. When they stood beside Thorin the Hobbit saw that the water did not just seem dark, but it was truly black, a glossy liquid that did not reflect anything, only drank in any light or reflection that fell on the surface.

 

Kili squatted down beside the water, moving his hand over it. “Still water?” he asked softly.

 

“Black water,” Thorin corrected him.

 

Bilbo looked back and forth between them, not quite sure what they were talking about. He felt Boromir’s glance that said the warrior was not any better off than he. “Well its’ obviously  black… but we will have to swim across…”

 

“It is not black, burglar,” Thorin told him. “It is black water, a cursed flood that will steal life and strength when touched. I do not know what dark well it springs from, but it taints the land it touches and it would kill any of us trying to swim. We need to find another way across.”

 

“How about a boat?” Fili asked. He called Bifur to him, pointing something out to their companion in a series quick hand gestures. The short dwarf took his spear, moving on a black willow tree close to the water, balancing out as far as he could reach with his spear for something that the others could not see. When the spear hooked with whatever it was, Bifur nearly fell off the branch, but Fili was there to steady him. The blond dwarf fished the rope tangled on the spear from the tip of the weapon and began to pull it in.

 

Thorin’s eyes widened, seeing Fili had not only spotted a boat but Bifur had managed to snag it. “Good work, both of you.”

 

The boat was not very large, it was an old ferry boat made of planks that had not seen care or repair in a number of years. “It cannot carry all of us at once,” Bilbo pointed out, he may not like boats very much but he had been a guest at Brandywine Hall enough to know a rotten boat when he saw one. “but we could in groups.”

 

He found Thorin stare at him and to his surprise the dwarf leader gave him a curt nod. “You are right, Bilbo. Boromir, can you maneuver this boat?” The man was taller than them and would have the better leverage to pole the boat across the river.

 

“I can, but without seeing where I go, there is a chance to hit rock.” The warrior replied, already asking Bifur to lend him his spear for use as a punt.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin pointed at the boat’s bow. “you are lightest of us, you will go there and be lookout for rocks and other things that may hit the boat. Kili, Bofur, you go first and secure the other shore.”

 

Bilbo bit his tongue; he did not like boats, not even the boating parties Rorimarc Brandybuck would host in summer. And sitting on the bow of such an unreliable craft to look out for rocks to hit… he did not like it at all. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder; Boromir gave him an encouraging nod. “Don’t make them nervous,” the warrior said softly. “most dwarves are worse swimmers than Halflings. They won’t even go into a bathtub.”

 

While Bilbo was not sure this was true, the joke made him smile and he climbed into the boat, kneeling down at the bow. Kili and Bofur occupied the middle, and Boromir stood astern to maneuver them across. The boat could not take much more of a load, Bilbo felt that the waterline was far too close already. Dutifully he looked at the dark water, trying to spot rocks or obstacles but all he saw was a blackness that knew no reflection or light. He shivered when he thought that there was something moving in the deeps, something greenish, he nearly jumped, his hands clutching the boat but when he looked again, it was gone.

 

Sighing in relief when they reached the other shore, Bilbo told himself sternly to be less of a chicken. Kili and Bofur left the boat, being their first foothold on the other side of the black river, while Bilbo and Boromir crossed the river again. Bilbo kept his lookout, trying to ignore the greenish movements he saw now and then in the dark flood. The next group was Gloin and Óin to make the crossing. Both dwarves were clearly uncomfortable in the boat but sat quietly while they were ferried over. This time Bilbo clearly saw something moving in the water, or was it just a stray ray of light lighting up the stained waters?

 

“I think you can stay with the others, there are no rocks or other obstacles on this crossing.” Boromir said when they unloaded the two dwarves.

 

“No,” Bilbo said. “I won’t have you do the crossing alone.” He disliked the river even more now but he would not have one of theirs be alone out here. “I think there is something in the water, Boromir.”

 

The warrior waved him closer, squatting down. “What did you see?” he asked softly.

 

Bilbo was surprised that the man would take his fears seriously. “Something greenish, like an arm… and it was moving.” He saw something akin to understanding in the warrior’s green eyes. “Do you know what it is?”

 

“Maybe,” Boromir replied. “Keep your sword ready Bilbo, but do not stare directly at the water.”

 

Again they made the crossing, Bilbo kneeling at the bow, sword in hand and his eyes on the river, watchful for any sign of danger. He saw the green things flit through the waters again, carefully he watched, trying not to stare at it. When they reached the shore again, Thorin arched an eyebrow. “Do you want to fish, burglar?” he asked his eyes pointing at the blade in Bilbo’s hand.

 

“I asked him to be on his guard,” Boromir interjected. “I do not like this river. Bombur, come on, you are next!”

 

The rotund dwarf approached the boat, standing ashore hesitantly. Bilbo could see he was shaking, afraid. The Halfling climbed off the boat and went to him. “Come on, Bombur,” he said friendly. “It is very safe. Boromir knows what he is doing.” He guided Bombur onto the craft and to sit in the middle. The dwarf was pale, his hand shaking.

 

Bilbo squatted down in front of him. “You don’t need to be afraid, Bombur, we will be at the other side fast enough.”

 

“Not fast enough for me,” Bombur said his eyes fearfully on the river. “We crossed the Anduin once when I was a boy, I fell off the boat and nearly drowned. I don’t like rivers. I don’t like adventures for that matter. I am a merchant, the road and the robbers are all the adventure I would wish for.”

 

Bilbo smiled a little. “I’d call that a sensible disposition,” he said, understanding where the dwarf was coming from. “But then why did you join? I mean… I know why I did, or even if I don’t know exactly why I did sign in the first place, I know why I am here now.”

 

Bombur sighed, grateful for Bilbo distracting him. “I am the eldest,” he said in a hush. “Bofur and Bifur, I have to look out for them, you know? I can’t leave them to face danger alone.”

 

Gently Bilbo patted Bombur’s massive arm, surprised that he was touched that Bombur would face all these hardships because his brother and cousin had signed up for an adventure. “I didn’t like boats either,” he said. “never since Lobelia pushed me off one during one of Rorimarc’s river parties…”

 

Suddenly the boat shook and Bilbo saw a green arm, a whole slimy figure emerge from the water, long fingered, boney hands, covered with slime and brown algae gripping the side of the boat, like the thing wanted to board them. Bilbo jumped up. “Stay where you are Bombur!” he shouted.

 

Swift-footedly he moved past the dwarf, towards the creature. His heart was racing, he did not know what that thing was, and he was not sure if he wanted to know but he had to do something. The hands had pushed at the side of the boat and an equally slimy foot followed them to climb aboard. Swinging his sword with all his strength, Bilbo hacked at the wrist of the left hand; an ugly crack like foul bones snapping followed the impact of the blade as it severed the hand from the arm. The creature shrieked, a painful unearthly howl as it fell back into the water.

 

Unbalanced by his own motion, Bilbo tried to catch his stumble not to fall into the river and was suddenly grabbed by the arm, landing hard on his backside. Bombur had reached out and pulled him back. “That’s a kind of water I’d not touch if I wanted to dye cheap wool black.” Said the merchant with a shaky grin.

 

When the boat reached their destination Bilbo was glad to have solid ground under his feet. “What… what was that?” he asked Boromir, after Bombur was safely off the boat.

 

“Drowned warriors,” The Gondorian told him grimly. “I only have never seen them so violent.”

 

“Drowned… like dead people?” Bilbo asked, shuddering. That thing had looked vaguely like a corpse, but he was glad that in his shock he had not really looked at it.

 

“Yes, sometimes when old tombs are swallowed up by water, dark swamps and so forth, these things come into being. They are rarely so aggressive like these here. But this whole forest is dark…”

 

“We need to get the others,” Bilbo appreciated that Boromir gave him time to recover, but Thorin, Fili, Bifur, Balin and Dwalin were still on the other side of the black waters. “Let’s go for them swiftly.”

 

Again they crossed the river, bringing Bifur across next, after that Thorin sent Fili and Balin, the very last time it was Dwalin and Thorin himself. Bilbo was always watchful, ready to fight should the creature appear again, but nothing happened. The Hobbit was very relieved when the river lay safely behind them.

 

“Well done,” Thorin rumbled at him.

 

They walked not much further that day, the path opened a little towards a small clearing with some ancient stones, remains of a ruin maybe, sitting right beside the path. Somewhere above them they heard an owl hoot into the rising dusk. “We will camp here,” Thorin decided.

 

Without the dwarven fire that needed next to no fuel to burn they would have had no light in the night of the forest. Rations were as scarce as they had been the previous days. Bilbo found he had little appetite after the run in with the creature at the river. “These things… the drowned warrior… they cannot walk, can they?” he asked Boromir, who sat not far away, leaning against a tree, his usual way.

 

“No, they only come for you when you look at them too long,” the warrior said.

 

“If they’d walk they would be Mewlips,” Kili said. “and these are not the marshes of east Dunland. Even as this ruin here, reminds me of them a bit.”

 

“What are Mewlips?” Bilbo asked. “I have never even read of them.”

 

“They are something akin to the dead in the water, only more alive and nasty,” Fili added. “they live in ruins and other dark places, they’ll eat you when they can get you.”

 

“All kinds of things in the dark seem to want to chew on you,” Bilbo said, remembering Gollum. That mangled creature, had gleefully gathered up all the corpses Boromir had discarded into the deep during their way through Goblin Town and it would still have eaten Bilbo had he not defended himself.

 

The Shadows where the Mewlips dwell

Are dark and wet as ink,

And slow and softly rings their bell,

As in the slime you sink.

 

Fili began to sing softly, keeping his voice low enough to not carry into the forest. He nudged his brother, who joined him at the second stanza.

 

You sink into the slime, who dare

To knock upon their door,

While down the grinning gargoyles stare

And noisome waters pour.

 

Beside the rotting river-strand

The drooping willows weep,

And gloomily the gorcrows stand

Croaking in their sleep.

 

The brother’s eyes had gone to Boromir, like they expected him to join in. Bilbo who listened to the song mainly did not notice much, though. The warrior actually obliged to sing along.

 

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,

In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,

By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,

Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

 

The cellars where the Mewlips sit

Are deep and dank and cold

With single sickly candle lit;

And there they count their gold.

 

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;

Their feet upon the floor

Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,

As they sidle to the door.

 

They peep out slyly; through a crack

Their feeling fingers creep,

And when they've finished, in a sack

Your bones they take to keep.

 

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road,

Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,

And through the wood of hanging trees and gallows-weed,

You go to find the Mewlips - and the Mewlips feed.

 

In spite of the gloomy story of the song, Bilbo found himself chuckling. It was the first time in days he had felt that much life in them; there was a smile even on Thorin’s face. And for this little moment the forest seemed less oppressive.

 

ADL

 

Something startled Bilbo’s sleep in the middle of the night, it felt like something reaching through a mire of fog to reach him. Opening his eyes was impossibly hard, like there was something that would keep him caught in sleep. He tried to yawn and force his eyes to open. The camp lay in thick mists, like drowning in a sea of cold white veils, the mists came creeping from the forests, and he could hardly see.

 

Heavy steps made him nearly jump but he willed himself to be still. A black boot and armored leg came in his sight, as a huge figure, armored and cloaked strode across their camp, picking up Bofur to toss him onto some kind of cart waiting by the roadside. Panic rose in Bilbo when he saw that none of the others would wake up. What was happening here? Was he the only one awake?

 

Another figure came close to pick up Boromir, much the same way. For a moment Bilbo hoped the warrior was just pretending to sleep. _Come on,_ he whispered in his mind to his friend. _You are a warrior, you do not really sleep, you can’t be asleep now._ But the warrior did not wake and was carried away to the others.

 

Bilbo’s hand found the ring in his pocket. He had not even thought of the thing since his escape from the mountain caves. He slipped it on, the world greying slightly before his eyes. Standing up he found that the armored figures did not see him, as had the Goblins in the cave. Now that he could fully see the camp, Bilbo saw that they had captured nearly all of them, but his eyes found Thorin’s familiar figure away from the camp. The Dwarven King was given to nightly unrest as much as Boromir, and tended to walk about during the watches of night. The Halfling slipped towards the sleeping dwarf. He had to hide him. But how? How to hide one sleeping dwarf, even as he was away from the others?

 

His eyes fell on the cart with the horse. Distract them and reduce the number of enemies… that was it! He slowly snuck across the clearing, picking a glimmering branch from the dying fire before reaching the cart. It was guarded but he was invisible to the three armored figures beside it. Admittedly Bilbo felt bad to do this to the poor horse, but what chance did he have? He pushed the glowing branch right under the Horses’ tail. The animal’s pained neigh was the only warning the guards got when the horse bolted, racing off into the woods with the cart.

 

There were neither shouts, or calls, nor any other sound even as the warriors scrambled to chase after the cart. Not wasting any time Bilbo raced to Thorin, who still lay asleep under the mists, the only one of the group save Bilbo that had not been taken. The small Halfling grabbed Thorin’s arms and dragged him away from the mists.

 

In a dark den behind an Oak, Bilbo dared to take the ring off. He shook the dwarf. “Thorin!” He whispered. “You need to wake up…” He realized that his voice may not be enough to truly wake the slumbering dwarf. “I am really sorry, Thorin,” Bilbo said before slapping the dwarf twice.

 

The second slap never landed, Bilbo’s wrist caught in Thorin’s iron grip. “What are you doing?” The dwarf grumbled, sitting up.

 

“Trying to wake you.” Bilbo said. “the others… they were taken, asleep like you. You were the only one I could get away from them.”

 

He half expected a rebuke, or anger but neither came from Thorin, the dwarven leader quickly catching up to the situation. “How many of ‘them’?” he asked. “And what were ‘they’?”

 

“I counted seven,” Bilbo said, recalling those who he had seen. “They were tall like men, armored, cloaked, spoke no word, all of them armed. They loaded our people on a cart and … I made the horse bolt.”

 

Thorin regarded him with a glance of unusual warmth. “Our people,” he repeated Bilbo’s words. “we’ll get them back, Bilbo. Show me where they went.”

 

ADL

 

The attackers had not returned to their camp, Bilbo could see as he led Thorin to the point where the cart had stood. The dwarf had quickly lit a torch from their dying fire, to be able to see in the night. His keen eyes found the tracks of the cart and he led them to follow into the nightly forest.

 

After half a mile he raised his hand for Bilbo to stop. “Others came,” he said, pointing on several spots on the soft ground. “They stopped the cart, there was fighting… our attackers lost the bout and retreated, leaving the cart behind.”

 

“So someone else and took our friends,” Bilbo sighed. “That does not sound any better than before.”

 

Thorin nodded grimly. “This forest was always dangerous, which is why my ancestors built the Men-i-Naugrim, the Dwarven road leading west, for even then it was not safe to stray too deeply into these woods.”

 

Amazed Bilbo looked at Thorin, here in the darkness, with only the light of the torch shining on his face, he looked more than ever like one of his secretive, legendary people. A dwarven wanderer moving through the night, gone before dawn and ordinary folk might see him. “Your people built this road?” he asked, awed. “I… I always thought the elves…”

 

“Elves rarely need roads,” Thorin said, again studying the tracks. “They lead south… come, Bilbo.”

 

For two hours they followed the trail deeper and deeper into the forest until the trees gave way to a wide clearing, with a crumbling ruin in the middle. Broken stone arches and ancient windows were visible as shadows before an eerie red light. As they crept closer towards the light, they saw their friends all tied to the pillars still standing in the heart of the ruin. They were awake again, some trying to free themselves to no avail. In the middle of the ring of pillars stood a stone slab, like a crude altar. Bilbo gaped when he saw Fili and Kili both tied to the pillars next to it.

 

Four ghostly figures stood like guards at the edges of the area, while a small-ish, cloaked figure stood at the altar. Bilbo heard a guttural laugh. “Do not struggle, King-child, you are not the first to bleed for Tungar-Sula. The Master will be greatly strengthened by your gift.”

 

Thorin growled softly. “Witchcraft,” he whispered to Bilbo. “you will have to free the others, I’ll take care of the guards.”

 

“No.” Bilbo protested. “These ghosts… you stand no chance, Thorin.”

 

The dwarven King met his eyes evenly. “You _have_ to free them, start with the strongest, Dwalin, Gloin, Boromir, then the others. Do not wonder what happens to me, I will keep the silent watchers occupied as long as I can.” He drew Orcrist, ending the discussion.

 

“Why are all of the great warriors keen on an early end?!” Bilbo whispered as he slipped the ring on. He could see Thorin charge at the watchers, fearlessly and with a grim will that disregarded danger and death. Orcrist shone like a star in his hand.

 

Bilbo tried to not listen to the clash of blades, the unearthly shrieks of the watchful ghosts as he dashed for the pillars. He first cut Dwalin’s bonds, the dwarf did not need any instruction on what to do, he jumped at the small-ish figure, his fist as effective a weapon as any else he had. Bilbo did not wait but cut loose Balin and Gloin. Behind himself he heard Thorin fall, pushed down by the ghost’s attacks. Peering over his shoulder he saw the Dwarf King get up again, Ocrist blocking the next attack of the ghostly blade.

 

“Bilbo, hurry, he needs help!” Boromir snapped at him, the warrior was trying to break his bonds but even his strong arms could not break those ropes. Quickly Bilbo cut him free and Boromir did not go for his weapon, that lay with the others on a pile at the side, but he ripped a torch from the altar, rushing to Thorin’s aid, the burning brand something the ghosts shied away from.

 

An ugly crack echoed through the dark, Dwalin had grabbed the figure at the altar and broken his neck, flinging away the corpse like a rag-doll. Within that moment the ghosts vanished and the red light on the ruin faded away as well.

 

ADL

 

Morning was already dawning as they set out to make it back to the road. Except for cuts and bruises none of them had been injured severely. Bilbo was especially glad that Thorin had come through his latest battle without too serious damage. His question about said injuries had been met with a glare and a curt “they are mere scratches”, but Bilbo was no longer rebuffed by the dwarves’ gruff tone. He knew that underneath it all Thorin was not as cold or haughty as he pretended to be.

 

Finding their way back was not easy, the woods themselves seemed changed in the dim light of another Mirkwood day. Thorin often had to stop to search for the quickly fading tracks that could bring them back to the old forest road. Still, by noon Bilbo had the feeling they were walking in circles. But he took heart when only an hour past noon the undergrowth became less thick and he could see some vague light ahead. Thorin had done it after all.

 

The trees drew back, making room for a clearing by the road and the company found themselves faced with the arrow-tips of a multitude of archers. A wood elven troop awaited them, and they did not look very friendly. “Do not move,” one of them spoke in common. “Any wrong step and you will be dead before you can run three paces.”

 

Standing behind Dwalin Bilbo used the one moment he had to slip on the ring, becoming invisible, their luck seemed to tend to sending them from the frying pan into the fire again.

 

“Move it, into the clearing, one after the other,” the same elf that had spoken, pointed them with his blade towards where they were to walk. Thorin knew that they could not outrun an elven arrow barrage even if they used the trees for cover. He stepped forward first, following their instructions; the others obeyed his example. Within the clearing the elves began to quickly disarm them, watchfully always keeping a dozen arrows trained at them.

 

The troop had not proceeded very far, when a rider on a grey horse came galloping into the clearing, he too wore the armor of the woodland warriors, but he also wore a helm, obscuring his elven face. “Belegur, what did you catch here? Someone stirred up a whole nest of Night-Wraiths in the Whispering Stones, I had to fight my way out.”

 

Thorin listened intently, as a Prince of the Mountain, he had been taught Sindarin as a matter of course, even as he usually did not show that he understood their tongue. The rider… he had something familiar about him, painfully familiar.

 

“A whole troop of dwarves and a man, Captain.” the Elven Archer named Belegur reported. “They came running right out of Tungar-Sula’s den, might be his latest little snatchers. He certainly wouldn’t be shy to recruit some black dwarves to do his dirty work.”

 

“We are no black dwarves,” Thorin stepped forward, in front of his men. “We were nearly killed by whoever this Tungar-Sula was.”

 

“Prince Thorin?!” The rider dismounted his horse and took off the helmet, revealing a face that would have been exceptional even amongst his beautiful kind only that it was marred with three scars running across the whole length of his features, like a claw having slashed his face long ago.

 

Thorin tried to keep still; it was a cruel stroke of fate that it would sent this warrior his way. “Lachanar,” he greeted him.

 

Belegur’s eyes widened. “This is Thorin son of Thrain… Lach, are you sure? No… you would be sure, wouldn’t you?” He suddenly smiled. “Lachanar, that is going to earn your way back to the greater host. If the King sees this catch…”

 

Lachanar silenced him with a sharp, angry glance. “Did they do anything? Aside of running through the woods so loudly, Dol Guldur will know they are here?”

 

“They trespassed on our territory,” Belegur said. “and Lachanar… you know our orders, you can’t think of disobeying.” Clear unease now spread along the elven patrol.

 

“I know our King’s Orders, Belegur,” Lachanar replied, heavily. “Thank you for reminding me.” He straightened, gesturing his men to hurry up. “Bundle their weapons and move out, with all the ruckus down there, I want to be back at the halls before nightfall.”

 

Thorin had watched the whole exchange silently, reading a lot between the lines. So Lachanar had fallen out of favor with the king. From one of the most trusted war leaders to leading a border patrol was a steep fall, and if his face was any indication he had fought some fierce battles since.

 

He pondered his next move, while they began to march, guarded by the elves. If Lachanar was at odds with his king, it might be a crack in his armor that Thorin could exploit, if he found it in himself to call up the bonds that once had tied them. No. Thorin decided, he would not pretend to still hold a friendship for an elf, not for one who must have had been there the day the dragon came. Lachanar had stood by and watched. On the other hand, Thorin would need all the advantages he could get if he wanted to get his people out of this. “That was not much of a greeting,” he observed in their tongue while they were marching.

 

Lachanar made his horse stand still until he was parallel to Thorin, letting it walk slowly beside him. “You were the last person I would have expected to be found in a den, where we usually uproot your less then pleasant kind. Tungar-Sula is not choosey with his helpers.”

 

“Who is he?” Thorin could see his very presence was making the elf uneasy, and at the same time Lachanar would not break off the conversation. So there was a part of him that remembered their friendship. A friendship he had betrayed, Thorin thought grimly, but if he had to use Lachanar to rescue his people it would be a fitting retribution.

 

“Minion of Dol Guldur, I do not even want to know what kind he truly is, his witchcraft is feeding Dol Guldur.  There is more of his kind in the woods, but he is one of those that are hard to kill.” Lachanar told him, there was a grim edge to the elf’s voice that had not been there a century ago.

 

“Dwalin killed him, snapped his neck,” Thorin replied, taking in the hints on much greater troubles lurking in the deep woods of this land. “We were attacked by something else before, during the night. They came with the mists.”

 

“Mist-Wraiths, same Master, different breed, I had some trouble with them when scouting the woods.” Lachanar had relaxed only a little. “Thorin…” he did not meet Thorin’s gaze. “These woods have become a dark place… and I cannot let you go, my King’s orders say otherwise.”

 

“Aye, and you follow his orders of course,” Thorin said acidly. “As you did the day the dragon came.”

 

Lachanar’s eyes darkened. “I disobeyed once and I paid for that.” He spurned his horse and galloped to the top of the column. Thorin sighed, he had the feeling he’d prefer the tender mercies of Dol Guldur before this was over.

 

ADL

 

Hiding in the shadow of a tree, Aelin watched the woodelven guard march off. They paid as much attention as menfolk, having never noticed the Noldor warrior shadowing them. He had watched them long enough to see all that was important, Elrohir would be so happy to hear of this. They had come here to assess how bad the threat of Dol Guldur was, finding that the darkness of southern Mirkwood had spread into the woodland realm and was barely resisted. Unchecked was what he would call it.

 

The Noldor swiftly moved away from the road and towards their meeting point. When he got there he saw Elrohir squatted down beside the body of a dark armored figure. “I had expected many things, but finding Mist Wraiths walking the Woodland Realm in daylight was not among them.” The traces on the clearing showed that there had been a fight only recently.

 

“Mist Wraiths and Sorcerers dabbling in blood magic, if all I heard is true,” Aelin said, as he approached him. “the name Tungar-Sula fell.”

 

Elrohir got to his feet. “It can’t be, Aelin…” he said fiercely. “I saw you kill him back in…”

 

“Either he did not die, or his ‘name’ was ever a title,” Aelin replied. “The one wearing the title here was killed by a dwarf named Dwalin.”

 

“Thorin and his people are here?” Elrohir asked, he had expected the dwarves to take the Wilderland road and avoid Mirkwood. “Did you bring them with you?”

 

“No. Lachanar and his patrol captured them; they are bringing them to the Halls of Thranduil.” Aelin reported. “But they were fewer than before, three dwarves and the Halfling were missing.”

 

Elrohir considered the Noldor’s words; he knew that Aelin did not hold things back, so he probably had not been able to tell which dwarves were missing. “Haerel, take half the troop and search the dens of these creatures, see if they still have any captive dwarves,” he ordered. “Aelin, you and the others are with me, we owe Thranduil an introductory visit.”

 

ADL

 

Thorin tensed visibly when they were led into the audience hall of King Thranduil. The traitorous elf languished on his throne, watching them with a detached interest like a scholar might look an ant. “I had not expected you to be so stupid to enter my realm,” he observed coolly. “You are not your grandfather, who thought himself powerful enough to even demand homage from my people.”

 

“I did not come here,” Thorin replied gruffly. “I had no intention to ever enter your… den.” He knew that some of the things that had transpired between Thror and Thranduil had been tense, but the elf had begged their help on more than one occasion, which had put him into position of some dependency.

 

The elven King’s eyes became even more distant, like he was looking at Thorin from afar, not quite connecting to these surroundings. “Then what brought you to my lands? We do not tolerate people crossing our realm any longer.”

 

“Our business is our own.” Thorin gave the elven King a stare. “And as badly protected as your road is, I would not think you can make many demands on who treads it.” He had a hard time bottling up his hatred. This elf, this treacherous cur had left them to die the day Smaug had come. How many more could have been saved, if this coward had not turned tail and fled?

 

“You forget your position,” The Elf King spat, something angry and dark rising in his eyes. He turned waving forward the leader of the patrol. “Lachanar, it seems you have finally have remembered your loyalties.” Thranduil’s voice had become lighter, more musical now. “You took a great step to redeeming yourself today. One more… and you will have earned back my trust.”

 

“That step being, your Highness?” Lachanar’s voice was even but his whole posture was tense, like a trapped animal trying to find a way to escape. He expected nothing good that much was clear in his whole stance.

 

“A long time ago a… dwarf who styled himself King… saw it fit to humiliate my noble house,” Thranduil told him. “He is dead now, slain by low hands, the last of his line is standing right before you. Kill him and you will have avenged your King’s honor and regained my trust.”

 

Paling Lachanar drew his sword. “Your Highness…” he spoke, his voice low. “Is such vengeance truly necessary? He is just a wanderer on the road, far below you now.”

 

“Still trying to protect him, are you?” Thranduil said sharply. “You can either kill him or share his fate – chose and chose swiftly!”

 

The elven warrior looked at his King, struggling, anger and barely concealed desperation playing on his marred features. Thorin stared at him evenly; it was so like Thranduil to be petty enough to choose one of Thorin’s former friends as his executioner. “Do it,” he said gruffly. “You already sacrificed your honor for him, what is one step more?”

 

The dwarf’s and the elf’s eyes met, cold blue meeting steely silver, Lachanar raised the blade in his hand weighing it, then with a sudden and angry move he threw it at Thranduil’s feet. “Then execute me right beside him, for I will not slaughter a friend for you and your madness.”

 

Angry Thranduil picked up the sword. “So be it,” he snapped. “You will watch him die.” With one angry stroke he sank the blade into Thorin’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem in this chapter is “The Mewlips” by Tolkien, taken from “The Adventures of Tom Bombadil.” I recommend hearing the musical version by Colin Rudd, who gave the poem a wonderful tune.
> 
> The Old Forest Road running through Mirkwood to the Old Ford on Anduin, is known in Sindarin as Men-i_Naugrim, the dwarven road. 
> 
> Lachanar – Brother of Fire
> 
> Haerel – distant Star
> 
> With the bug hugs and thanks for Harrylee94!!!!!!


	16. Of Dreams and Nightmares

The blade sank into Thorin’s chest, shock and pain erupting in him as he fell to the ground, his body crushed by its own weight. “Thorin!” He could not tell who had shouted, but Kili and Fili were by his side moments later, he could see their shocked faces. Their voices came from afar… he was hardly able to discern their words.

 

_So you have sired some spawn on a black dwarf of all things…_

 

Thranduil’s voice cut through the haze, as the guards pulled Kili away. Fili shouted his brother’s name, but remained with Thorin. He spoke, but Thorin did not hear his words. It was so cold here; he felt a chill running through his entire being. Fili’s eyes shone with tears, he tried to reach up, touch his face, comfort him… but everything became grey, fading away even further.

 

The room faded into grey, he thought he could still see Fili even when he vanished before his eyes, Thorin called for him, but his voice echoed into emptiness. Heavy steps came closer; he could hear them, dwarven boots marching on the path by the river.

 

What river? Where was he?

 

Thorin rose, finding he was standing in an eerie twilight by the side of a dark river. He shivered, legends of this place were told among his people since the dawn of time. The steps drew closer and now he could actually see a figure emerge from the grey-ish twilight. It was a dwarf, not quite as tall as Thorin, he wore leather armor, strengthened by steel, swords on his back, leading a white pony. Light hair, fair as spun gold, forming a wild mane fell around his shoulders. The figure was so painfully familiar and so long missed. Suddenly Thorin understood why all those who were on threshold of the Grey would willingly follow their guide into the darkness. It was a guide they wished to see most.

 

“Dari?” He asked softly, still not daring to believe it was truly his friend.

 

“Thorin,” Dari smiled at him, much like in life. “it’s been a long time.”

 

Leave it to Dari to understate things, he died under the Orc blades for Thorin and when they met again, he’d still have a smile and some gentle greeting for him. Thorin bridged the distance between them and pulled Dari into a fierce hug. “Too long,” he had missed his friend so much, it hurt.

 

Dari returned the embrace, wordlessly understanding the pent-up emotions inside his friend. He had always understood. After a while he pulled back, shaking his head slightly. “You should not be here, Thorin, this place is not for you. Nothing you did warrants straying into the Grey.”

 

“If leading my friends to death and letting down my people counts, this is the place I belong.” Thorin replied grimly. “But… Dari… why are you here? You deserved to find Mahal’s halls.” He could not imagine Dari wandering the Grey for time beyond reckoning instead going home to their father, to the one who’s forge shaped them all.

 

“I am here for you, Thorin,” Dari simply said. “you must not stay here.”

 

And now Thorin understood, for whatever reason he was given the mercy to be guided from the Grey, he did not know how he could deserve it, but Dari came for him, like the friend he always was. “So I am dead?” He knew this had to be it, Thranduil killed him.

 

“Not yet,” Dari told him. “Your time has not yet come, my friend. Your path still stretches before you.”

 

Bitterly Thorin shook his head, why was Dari so calm? Why was he not angry? “As if that meant anything, Dari, no fate cared that the hour of so many had not yet come. Fate did not care that your time had not come when you fell under that Orc blade. Mahal’s mercy, Dari… you left your home on the Reach for me, and all I did was lead you to an early and cruel grave…”

 

“Thorin,” Dari’s voice gently cut through his anger, through his bitterness. “My hour may not have had come there, but my life was given freely and gladly. I never regretted my path, not one day, I was blessed with your friendship, it was all I asked for.”

 

For a long time they just stood, Thorin’s pain slowly evaporating, like a weight lifting off his shoulders. “You are so much like your son, Dari. Fili… he takes after you so much. Fire and Flame… Fili… he still in Thranduil’s hands…”

 

“Which is why you must go back.” Dari said. “They will need you, Thorin. And who else to take back Erebor? You can’t leave the boys to do that on their own?”

 

They walked together along the path through the Grey, the dark river to their left, Dari seemed to know the way and Thorin trusted him. “Why am I given such mercy?” Thorin asked, still not understanding why his life should be so much different from all those others who fell to the blade, to hunger, to the dragon.

 

Dari stopped in his tracks, turning to Thorin. “Is it so hard to believe that you do deserve a good turn of fate, now and then?” he asked. “I cannot claim to know Mahal’s judgement, but he holds his hand over your line, Thorin.”

 

They reached the end of the path, the Grey evaporating into colour. “This is as far as I can go, Thorin.” Dari said. “But you can make it on your own from here.”

 

Thorin did not go, he remained where he was, eyes on his old friend. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he wanted to ask. But his throat was tight; the words would not come out.

 

Again Dari read all there was in Thorin’s heart in his eyes. “When you return to Erebor, seek out the Reach,” he said after a moment. “My people still survive there, they wait for their King to return.”

 

“Dari… I…” Thorin whispered, not knowing how to say goodbye to his friend again.

 

Stepping closer Dari smiled. “The next time we meet, I expect a long tale about dragon slaying and restoring Erebor, my friend.” He said. “And I hope you make me wait for many many years.” He raised his hands, palms down, touching Thorin’s own, a warm light shining between their hands.

 

Thorin felt the warmth trickle into his body, shocked to realize the gift he was given. “No, Dari… you can’t.”

 

His friend smiled. “Take it, Thorin, I want you to. Now go, may your path lead you home.” The warmth light enveloped Thorin and he closed his eyes accepting the gift, the gift of a candle doused well before it’s time. They grey light faded and Thorin woke with a gasp. He lay on a blanket on a stone floor; he blinked into the semi-dark, groaning.

 

“Thorin!” Balin’s voice came from the dark. “Mahal’s mercy… you live…” The older dwarf’s voice was hoarse, like he had been crying.

Pushing himself off the blanket, Thorin sat up, his hand went to his chest, finding the cut of the blade entirely gone. “It would take more than a haughty wood elf to kill me.” He tried to grumble, failing at it when he saw Balin’s distress.

 

“Thranduil had us thrown down here, saying you should die like a dog in a den…” Balin’s voice held a wealth of barely constrained emotions. “When you grew all still, I feared you were going home to your fathers.”

 

Thorin actually hugged the old dwarf, seeing the pained concern in his eyes. “No, old friend, I promised Dari to make him wait for a long time.”

 

ADL

 

_The sharp snap of the crossbow was the only warning he got, Thranduil ducked the bolt missing him barely, hitting one of the servants who tried to hide in the halls. The noise of battle ringing up from the great halls below, he took his bow, coming up behind the stone balustrade that gave him cover. In the hall below the royal guard fought a losing battle against the dwarves. Dwarves! Searing hatred rose inside the young Sindar. They had come for the Nauglamir, and their army cut swath through the ranks of Doriath’s finest warriors. His arrows killed two more dwarves, before their crossbowmen had him in their crossfire again and he had to take cover behind the stones._

_There was blood everywhere, the throne hall littered with corpses, there was blood everywhere, Thranduil stumbled forward, fearful to recognize his father in one of the many dead. On the stairs of the throne he saw Thingol’s lifeless form, felled by a dwarven axe…_

“Father, you need to wake up,” A voice cut through Thranduil’s dark dreams.

 

“Legolas, what happened?” The elf king sat up quickly, trying to hide any tiredness. Elves did not sleep like common men did, and their dreams were different. He would not have his son see that he had been deep in sleep.

 

“Prince Elrohir and his riders have arrived here, father.” Legolas told him. “Do you wish for me to deal with them?”

 

Tiredly Thranduil looked at his only son, he was so much like the youth of the Eldar had been, and yet he too only barely escaped the touch of the shadow. “Why do you ask me that? Whom did he bring with him, that you feel I should not meet him?”

 

“He brought Aelin with him and refuses to leave him outside the city.” Legolas’ voice betrayed an amount of anger at that.

 

Duathaelin… the name sent a shiver through Thranduil. _Blades clashing, they stood ten to one but they might as well have stood one to ten, for the one warrior overpowered them with the terrible ease of an Elf who had turned killing into perfected art. It was the cruelest thing of it all that the rebuilt Doriath should not be faced by the Dwarves or hordes of Orcs but by their own kind. A Noldor army battling them, giving neither quarter nor mercy. Thranduil’s companions died left and right, the warrior whirling through one deadly dance, his sword never failing, each strike taking a life. Standing the last, Thranduil did not even find the strength to raise the blade to defend against the deadly attacker. The warrior halted his strike, only disarming him. “Learn to fight before you play the warrior’s game, Sindar,” he said in their tongue, pushing Thranduil aside to gain access to the upper halls._

_“”Duathaelin! Don’t waste time on them, we need you at the gate!” the call came from above. The Noldor raced up the stairs, leaving Thranduil standing, wondering why he had been spared…_

“Father, you better rest.” Legolas said warmly, worry clear in his eyes. “I will speak with Prince Elrohir and ask him to remove his Noldor… companion.”

 

“No.” Thranduil said. “Do not contest with such a foe. He serves Elrohir out of a blood debt most likely… his ghastly kind did not deserve even that mercy.” He felt the anger rise inside him, much like when he had killed that dwarf… “I will rest, my son and withdraw to the gardens.” He said, sinking back on his pillow.

 

ADL

 

Elrohir paced in the small audience hall, waiting for Thranduil to make his appearance. It was unusual, if not downright impolite to make him wait like this. “He may make you wait until you comply, sending me away.” Aelin observed, the warrior stood with his back to a pillar, if being in the middle of a palace where he was entirely unwelcome unnerved him, he did not show it.

 

“As I do not comment or critique his choice of company, I expect the very same from him.” Elrohir replied. “and if my father can not only tolerate your presence, but forgive you, so can Thranduil. We are not here to celebrate autumn’s return with him, we are here for tidings of war, for Dol Guldur, I would be stupid to send you away. It would be like cutting off my right arm.”

 

Aelin accepted the compliment with an inclining of his head, sometimes Elrohir was still surprised that he had managed to win the prideful warrior’s allegiance. When the Noldor spoke, his voice was lower, hushed. “But something is off here, this whole palace… these halls, there is something strange here, I can sense it.”

 

Elrohir wanted to agree with him but they were interrupted by Legolas entrance. “If you feel a shadow on these halls, then it is the shadow the blood on your hands carries, Duathaelin.” He said coolly before he turned to Elrohir. “I am sorry that my father was not here to greet you, Prince Elrohir, he has been occupied with other matters and will not be able to see you today.”

 

“I understand,” Elrohir bowed slightly as was proper. “And I regret he would be that busy. I was sent here by my einior emmel, the Lady Galadriel to speak to your people about the danger of Dol Guldur. On the way here I also learned of a number of dwarves that were caught by your people on the road.”

 

Legolas arched an eyebrow. “The dwarves are captives; my father ordered their leader executed.” He told Elrohir evenly. “As for Dol Guldur, the threat is contained on the southern edge of the road, we fight constantly against their forays, but it does not pose any danger for our lands.”

 

“Your father ordered the dwarven leader killed?” Elrohir asked incredulously. “For what crime?”

 

“It would be none of your concern, Prince Elrohir. We thank you for your concern regarding Dol Guldur…”

 

Elrohir had known Legolas for nearly all his life, the woodland Prince was younger than him and he could tell that the Prince was trying to push them off, get them out of here quickly. Something was wrong and Legolas was trying to save face. “Aelin, wait outside,” he told his companion before approaching the woodland elf. “Legolas… something is wrong here. Your father may dislike dwarves, even hate them, but ordering Thorin killed?”

 

Taken aback Legolas looked at him. “I did not say his name… have you been spying on us?” His posture got more defensive.

 

“No,” Elrohir said. “But they passed through Rivendell no two months ago. And you still have not told me for what crime your father would execute him.”

 

“He has suffered enough pain at the hands of Durin’s house,” Legolas said, but his heart was not truly in the answer. “Elrohir… I cannot go against my father. Please. Let it go. Stay as a guest, if you wish, but please… let it rest. These dwarves are none of your concern.”

 

“Two of them are my friends, Legolas!” Elrohir said angrily. “And if your father killed their Uncle, then another blood vengeance may rise from that… do you want this? And Dol Guldur is not contained at all, we fought Night Riders and Mist Wraiths right inside the woodland realm.”

 

Legolas gave him a sorry, sad glance. “You have an odd… choice on whom you call friends, Prince Elrohir,” he said eventually. “Please leave. You cannot do anything here.” He turned suddenly and left the hall.

 

ADL

 

Fili was finally asleep, exhausted and pained; sleep had taken its due as the night wore on. The young dwarf leaned against Boromir and the warrior had an arm wrapped around him. During the long lone hours in their cell he had tried to comfort Fili, little as there was he could do. Thorin struck down before they very eyes and Kili dragged off for questioning had left Fili desperate, pained and haunted with worry. Boromir had not shared with him what he felt from Kili through the bond, it was too strange. The bond would blank out for hours at a time, to be revived with pain and fear. Fear increasingly getting stronger with each time.

 

Fili’s bitter tears for Thorin, had been all too understandable to Boromir and he had held the younger warrior, much like a brother would, through the worst of it. Boromir had long lost the ability to cry as openly, or to express sorrow with the same openness. He had not cried for his own father and he had not shed tears for the many others that had fallen by his side. The last one he had cried for like that had been his mother and maybe his grandfather, both dead during his childhood. He had sometimes wished he could express his pain like this, it would maybe make the hollow feeling in his chest less painful. But once unlearned tears could not be regained much as one might wish for it. He had held Fili, comforted him, another little brother needing his strength.

 

Now that Fili was asleep, Boromir sat unmoving, his mind going over all that happened. His mind did not linger on Thorin struck down and tossed into a cell to die alone. Cold as it may sound, everyone died alone, when the end came you had to face it alone with no one by your side. It was a grim truth. What worried Boromir was Thranduil. The Elven King behaved nothing like he had heard of him, nothing like his brave son Legolas. And there had been that expression in his eyes – the rage, the greed, the darkness. Boromir knew that expression all too well, he had seen it rise in his own father’s eyes when Denethor had spoken of the Ring, he had seen it in his own eyes, reflected in the waters of the great river, when the Ring had been calling for him, when he had nearly fallen to the lure of the dark. What kind of darkness had reached the King of the Woodland Realm? How could the dark even reach the elves? They were beings of light, weren’t they?

 

He sighed, his heart heavy. Thorin’s death should not have happened… what had gone wrong? Had his own presence caused things to change? No, he doubted that he was of such an import. Yet something had changed, like fate itself was unraveling. Arwen had warned him to not to try and change the fate of the world, and thus he had left Bilbo alone, even as he knew the Halfling must have the Ring by now. The story of the ring’s finding had been told at the council. The Ring… Boromir had not felt anything from it, no dreams, no whispers, no call, no lure. Was it because Sauron was not yet strong enough to call for it? Or did someone else hear the call? Was Sauron’s presence already that strong that he could even influence the Woodland Realm? Suddenly Boromir realized something… Galadriel and Elrond both had been wearers of the Elven Rings, using their power to protect their realms, the Mirkwood Kingdom lay at the borders of Dol Guldur without any shield against evil. And Boromir knew how it felt to struggle so long in the shadow.

 

“Boromir?” he heard a whisper. “are you awake?”

 

Fili startled, sitting up fully. “Bilbo? Where are you?” he asked, looking around.

 

“You can’t see me, I am a burglar after all,” Bilbo’s voice came from near the door. “are you two alright?”

 

“How can I be?” Fili asked, his voice nearly breaking. “They murdered Thorin… they have my brother.”

 

“Thorin is not dead yet, Fili.” Bilbo told them. “He was injured but he lived, they brought him into a deep cell with Balin. I was there an hour ago and he is recovering. You don’t think he’d let an elf kill him, do you? He is too stubborn and bloody minded to die at their convenience.”

 

“Bilbo… I could hug you,” Fili said, his eyes shining with new light. “What about my brother?”

 

“I have not found him yet.” Bilbo explained. “They have split you up along all their dungeons, which are excessive, I might add. I never thought elves would have use for so many dungeons.”

 

Talking to an invisible voice did feel a bit strange, but now that Bilbo was here and able to move about freely was something of a ray of hope. “Bilbo… you found us, what is your plan?” Boromir asked.

 

“I hoped to discuss that with you,” Bilbo said. “at first I had hoped to find a way to free you all, but you are so far apart from each other.”

 

“But loosely guarded,” Boromir pointed out. “There are long intervals between patrols and they never have many guards down here. Do you think you can steal a few knives and something to pick this lock with?”

 

“You want to break out of this dungeon?” Bilbo asked. “I have no idea how to get out of this mountain, we are underground…”

 

“We will find a way out of here, Bilbo, but to do so we need some weapons to defend ourselves and a way out of this cell. And we had better not tarry, before Thranduil remembers Thorin.”

 

“You plan to kill the guards, do you?” Bilbo had seen Boromir fight in Goblin town; his question came without too much surprise.

 

“What other choice do I have?” Boromir asked. “I would try to take out the guard when they bring our food, but I’d prefer to have a weapon when tackling an elf.”

 

Bilbo sighed. “I do not like this, Boromir… but after what they did to Thorin I understand. I will try to find an armory. Do not give up, I will be back.”

 

ADL

 

“He knows something but he prefers to hide it than to ask for help,” Elrohir strode down the long empty hall, only Aelin at his side. “Look at this place… they hide, they creep deeper into their woods, and they pretend that nothing is haunting them.”

 

“Maybe it goes against their pride to ask for help, they wouldn’t be the first elves to make that mistake,” Aelin pointed out, and be it only for the sake of argument.

 

“Pride or foolishness? My grandmother will not be happy to hear of this, but maybe she can make sense of it.” Elrohir replied, not slowing his stride. “And as we are so nicely unattended in this inhospitable house we will go and find the dwarves.”

 

“You are angry about Thorin,” Aelin adjusted his step to keep up with the Prince. “And while I understand your friendship with his nephews, he showed you hardly any liking and little respect.”

 

Elrohir laughed, stopping. “Aelin, what would his respect be worth if it was not hard won? He is proud, stubborn and headstrong, brave and fierce, the world would be lessened without people like him. And to hear he was killed because a woodland elf did not know how to hold his temper…”

 

“They threw him into the dungeons when he did not die right away, if Thranduil never bothered to learn dwarven anatomy his stroke might have missed heart and lung.” Aelin said. “So… the dungeons it is?”

 

Elrohir signalled him to be silent, the keen ears of the Prince picking up something, a soft footfall and something like a gasp. He whirled around, grabbing into the thin air to actually feel he had grabbed someone small but invisible. He could feel the wriggling in his hand, and then suddenly Bilbo became visible to him.

 

“Bilbo Baggins?” He asked, shocked. His men had reported finding no trace of other dwarves or a Halfling anywhere near the old forest road.

 

“Sh… keep your voice down; I would prefer to not be found.” Bilbo told him. “You are the first to spot me.”

 

Elrohir put the Halfling back down, surprised and glad to see him. “So you escaped the guards that caught your friends. Good work.” He said. “You are going to free your friends, I take it?”

 

The Halfling nodded. “Yes. I found most of them, they are held in different parts of the dungeons. Thorin is alive, but injured and I cannot find Kili. Lachanar said he might have been brought down to the lowest levels.”

 

“Lachanar? He is helping you?” Elrohir knew the former warleader and now patrol captain, he was one of Thranduil’s best warriors.

 

“He is in a cell for refusing to execute Thorin, he is scheduled to die after him.” Bilbo said. “And he is resigned to that, but he described most of the dungeons to me and will write down the watch and patrol patterns for Boromir to use, once I have gotten them some weapons and a way out of the cells.”

 

“That sounds like half of a plan already,” Aelin observed. “But we better make sure we know where all of them are, before beginning.”

 

“We? You mean you would help?” Bilbo had been sure the two Rivendell elves would not give him away, but helping was something else entirely.

 

“We won’t leave friends to rot in the dungeons.” Elrohir confirmed. No matter what influence Thranduil was under, what had been done here was not to be taken lightly, and he would do all he could to set it right. “Aelin, find Sireán, have him secure a boat near the old river gate, pretend we want to leave the city on the river when necessary and set Pelingil to finding out where the Dwarves’ possessions have been stored. Meet Bilbo and I at the dungeon bridge after, it is high time we inspect this dungeon.”

 

ADL

 

Goeron sat on the edge of the table, watching the proceedings with his arms crossed in front of his chest. The dungeon master was not in a good mood, but it was not his task to be cheerful. He had been instructed to get answers about the company’s destination from Thorin’s spawn, and the dwarf proved recalcitrant. The first attempt to make him talk had been a generous dose of Wildberryroot Elixir but the brew that would have any Elf talk the truth properly had only managed to make the dwarf aggressive beyond control. The stubbornness of his race winning out over the Elven ways of finding answers.

 

Elves did not interrogate the prisoners the way Orcs did, much as Goeron would have preferred to give the dwarf a whipping that let him beg and whimper for a week, he would not sink to such levels. So other ways had to be found, and the means stood in the center of this very room: a simple stone chair, cut from a grey, unassuming material. The seemingly simply item had been cut in long bygone times to punish the rare cases of crime among the elf-kind. Elves neither killed nor maimed in punishment or justice, any criminal would be placed in the chair and made relive his deeds from the victim’s perspective. The use of the chair was so rare that it had nearly been forgotten.

 

The dwarf sat in the chair, oblivious to the room and their presence, thick sweat running off his brow, his was writhing in a pain caused by something invisible. The lush long hair was wet with sweat and sometimes he screamed, his voice hoarse from too all the screaming he had done already.

 

“Six times under, no result,” Midhior observed. “he is a tough one… tougher than any I have seen so far. His will is remarkable.” The elf was the one to control the artifact, for Goeron had never learned to wield such powers.

 

“What is he seeing?” Goeron asked, wondering if Midhior went too easy on the dwarf.

 

“He is hanging in chains, naked, being flogged by a black Orc,” Midhior said, his eyes never leaving the chair. “Their leader, a huge pale Orc already had his share of sport with him but is still eying him greedily. Not far away the other orcs have built a fire, hoping to roast him alive… he knows it’s either them, or the leader again and this time I will not allow him to wake up early.”

 

“Up the ante a little,” Goeron said. “He already knows that one, make him survive and the Orc keep him… a nightmare unending.”

 

Up on the ledge above the room Elrohir squatted, watching the events below, he could sense Kili’s agony, what he was being put through, he had long learned to listen into artifacts such as this. All in him wanted to leap down there to free him. But he knew if he wanted to truly save Kili he would have to be smart. Staggering Elrohir made it back into an empty tunnel above the dungeons, his stomach clenched, he still could sense parts of what happened to Kili, and he wanted to throw up at the sensations. “How can they do this…” he whispered brokenly. No elf… not even the most vile of them should sink that low.

 

“Elrohir, are you injured?” Aelin had found him, kneeling down beside him.

 

“No… can you feel that, Aelin? How can they do that…?” Elrohir whispered, knowing the Noldor’s keen senses should be easily attuned to the artifact that was used.

 

“I can feel it,” The Noldor confirmed, gently guiding Elrohir away from the tunnel and out of the reach of the artifact. “He is still holding out, his mind is very strong.”

 

“Aelin… can there be any explanation… any excuse for what they have done?” Elrohir asked, a hint of desperation in his voice, the shock still so close. “What they are doing here… it is something Orcs would do. Those are not elves…”

 

“I have done worse and you never shied away from me,” Aelin reminded him, steadily meeting his eyes.

 

Elrohir drew a slow breath, exhaling slowly to calm himself. “You fought in wars, you have killed, you have even killed our own kind, Aelin. But you never sunk that low.” He said firmly. “I will believe that Thranduil does not know what is happening here, for now. But something dark is at work in this land, influencing his people, it is the only explanation.” He straightened up, the moment of weakness passing. “We will get them out tonight, once the boat is ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always this chapter comes with a lot of thanks to Harrylee94, who patiently listens to my ideas and plans, reads my chapters wonderfully and develops an eerie sense of knowing what I am planning ahead.
> 
> Some of my readers have expressed worry about Thranduil being so bad… and while I will honestly admit that my love for the guy is limited, he will not be bad out of his own volition entirely in this story. There is a darkness working on him, that feeds his hatred and his pain. The events referenced in his flashback are the First Sacking of Doriath by the Dwarves, and the Second Kinslaying, when Doriath was destroyed by the sons of Feanor.
> 
> Why is the world so different from the original events? I got asked that a couple of times. This is not scientific time travel, this is magical travel, influencing fate, which IMHO follows a different logic. For one fate (or several fates) to be changed, other things must balance out again, thus things change, far beyond the reach of original traveler. It is the small scale version of the same effect Arwen warned Boromir about.


	17. As blood rose on that day

The palace gardens had once been a sunny place, with flowers blooming and butterflies of all colours drifting in the breeze. Thranduil did not like to remember the gardens that way; they seemed so bland, so common, in his memory. The gardens had only attained their true beauty later, when he had brought the tree here. He so well remembered the day when he had first seen Thuraán, deep in the southern reaches of the forest, a true tree spirit if he had ever seen one. Thranduil had not seen one of their wonderful kind since Doriath burned, with their glades burning and their trees hacked down they had vanished. Oh, how he had missed the friends of his youth, who had walked the enchanted woods with the elves, showing them the secrets of the deepest forests and darkest glades.

 

When he had first seen Thuraán it had been no more than a glimpse at an agile, dark haired figure roaming the forest. Once spotted the Huirorn had fled swiftly vanishing into the deep forest. Thranduil could not hold it against him, his kind had been badly hurt by the wars the elves had fought. But he had been so happy that day, knowing one of their beautiful kind had survived. During several more hunting expeditions he had spotted him, always form afar, always fleeing when he saw the elves.

 

Eventually Thranduil had dismissed his guards, courtiers and other companions; alone he began to roam the southern forest, leaving even his weapons behind, except for his bow. And in a deep dark part of the forest he had found him: a shadow willow standing by a dark pool, branches softly whispering and stroking the waves on the water. Having known the Huirorn’s mystic trees in Beleriand Thranduil had not been taken aback by the dark surroundings, many of the forests most beautiful things grew in the darkest spots.

 

For weeks he had sat under the tree, speaking, singing, never losing patience. The first time the dark willows soft swishing branches had embraced him while he rested, had brought him back a gift he thought lost with the deep woods of Doriath. After months Thuraán had dared to show himself for more than scarce moments, the first time they had spoken had been the night before Thranduil had to leave. He had been pained, not wishing to part from this new found happiness, but he needed to return to his people. Still shy and fearful Thuraán had gifted him with a willow branch.

 

Knowing this to be the greatest gift, a sign of trust, Thranduil had put the branch in water and once it showed roots he planted it in the royal gardens. The young tree took hold there and within a year a beautiful dark willow sprang from it. Of course the gardens had changed, shadow willows did not like the sun and they needed water nearby. But the changed gardens were so much more beautiful, so much more alive with their dark waters, shadow orchids glowing in the night and whispering shade grass, caressing the feet of those wandering the soft pathways. The gardens became Thranduil’s refuge, his home, his place of strength, Thuraán’s trust and friendship a wonderful gift, much as others would not understand and wanted to steal it from him.

 

Thranduil guarded his dark willow jealously, not allowing any harm to come to Thuraán, he had felt the panic in him when the dwarves entered the woods. His willow tree remembered the burning of Doriath, the fire and pain the dwarves had brought to his kind and Thranduil had so well understood what was paining Thuraán. But this was taken care of, the Dwarf King was dead and he would do away with the rest of them once he knew what their plans had been.

 

Approaching the tree the King leaned his feverish forehead against the cool bark, feeling the branches touch and envelop him. He closed his eyes, reveling in the protection, the cool shade the tree offered. While Thuraán’s spirit form was truly beautiful, nothing compared to this true form, this dark tree. Sighing relaxed, Thranduil sat down, close to the tree, leaning into the willow’s embrace; he finally had found a place to rest.

 

ADL

 

Bilbo crept through the hall, careful to evade the guards. Ever since Elrohir had caught him in spite of being invisible, the Halfling was especially careful. The elves had keen senses and others might hear him as well, luckily the guards were not particularly attentive, they did not expect someone to break into the armory. Bilbo began to feel like a real burglar now and then, he had already snatched some lockpicks and other useful items from various places in the palace. Now he needed to get the weapons he had promised to find, he still had a bad feeling about this. He could not delude himself about what Boromir would do with these weapons, and even while he shuddered at the thought the Halfling could not evade this, not with what had happened to his friends here. Still, it was a difference to scout out a few Orcs for his comrade who would kill them, and stealing the weapons that would be used to kill some elven guards.

 

 _Stop being a fool, Bilbo Baggins._ He told himself sternly. _You saw what they did to Thorin._ He could not leave his friends in their hands, so he would have to accept his complicity in the deaths that would follow. He tiptoed past the last guard and into the main armory. Armor and weapons were orderly stacked on racks, all of them the same the elven guards used. The sight of them made Bilbo hope that Elrohir’s friends would be able to retrieve the dwarves’ weapons and armor. He had especially mentioned Orcrist, he would hate to see the wonderful elven sword stolen from Thorin.

 

To not attract attention he went deeper into the armory before actually picking up several weapons. The Elven Daggers were long and heavy; some were even longer than his own sword! He smiled; letter-opener indeed.  He selected three elven daggers, with their scabbards attached he could carry two on his back, with a third to carry in his hands he had about as much as he could take. Extra careful he slipped out of the armory and made his way back down to the dungeons.

 

When Bilbo reached Lachanar’s cell, he saw the guard just move off, making their rounds before the evening food would be delivered. He waited for the guard to vanish around the corner and approached the bars of the cell door, like before the elven warrior sat near the door, his scarred face impassive. Bilbo noticed a few fresh marks on him, it seemed he had not been left all alone. “Lachanar,” he whispered. “it is time.”

 

The Elf neither jumped nor otherwise betrayed that he had heard him. “Good,” he whispered back, his hand moving through the bars with practiced ease, putting a small scribbled note outside. “Give this to your friend; it will make sense to him.” He had tried to explain the watch patterns and patrol scheme to Bilbo and had hopelessly confused the Hobbit.

 

Bilbo took the small parchment and put it into his pocket. “I have the lockpicks, Lachanar… are you sure you want to do this? They can’t blame you when we are gone, if you are still in a cell.”

 

The elf seemed to nearly look at him, having deciphered whence the voice came. “I am a dead man, Bilbo,” he said calmly. “all I can do now is chose the manner of my dying and I would rather die for a warrior who once called me a friend, than through the executioner’s blade. Your friends can do with a good diversion.”

 

The Halfling sighed. “I will give you the lockpick under one condition, Lachanar.” He said firmly. “If we escape and you are still alive, you will escape too. You will not try to commit suicide in a fanciful manner but you will try and save yourself.”

 

“You are good being, Bilbo Baggins,” Lachanar replied. “Very well then, should I survive long enough to see you escape, I will flee as well.”

 

It was the best Bilbo could get, he pushed the lockpick through the bars, his heart was heavy. Deep down in his soul he could not understand the fierce death wish that had taken hold in the elven captain’s soul. Wasn’t it better to try and reconcile with his former friend than to die nobly? Seeing the elf getting up, reaching through the bars again to work on the lock, Bilbo hurried away to find Boromir and Fili.

 

Arriving at the cell in the eastern parts of the dungeon Bilbo found both warriors inside ready to go. The Halfling sighed, he had not much practice in lock-picking, what little he knew of that business he had learned from his Took cousins, who always got into some mischief. It took him several minutes before the lock opened, neither Fili nor Boromir had shown any impatience, they had simply waited.

 

For a short time Bilbo risked taking the ring off, handing Boromir the message from Lachanar. “He said you would make sense of that.” He said, hoping the elf had been right and written in a language the Gondorian would actually understand.

 

Boromir’s eyes quickly went over the minuscule notes. “Single grid patrol scheme, half hour rotations and… no secondary patrols? They are more than just careless.” He observed. “He even was able to name a few phrases to open their spell doors… if they keep them that long, they must not have had unwanted guests in years.”

 

Bilbo ducked his head, hiding a shake of his head, he had expected a grim critique of how lazy this dungeon was run from Boromir once they were out of this cell, and he was not being disappointed. He weighed the daggers in his hand. “You will need these,” he said, his heart heavy.

 

The two took a dagger each. “Can you get the third to Thorin?” Boromir asked. “We will go to free the others, but I’d feel better knowing Thorin was armed the moment he stepped out of his cell.”

 

“I will,” Bilbo agreed. “I wish…”

 

Boromir squatted down, coming to eye height with him. “So do I, Bilbo. I do not relish in the thought of having to slay elves, but… they made their choice when they put our friends into cells.”

 

“You must think me quite the fool,” Bilbo said, feeling even smaller. These were his friends, they relied on him and it was not like the Elves had given them much of a choice. He did not dare imagine what would have happened, if they did not have the help of Elrohir and his riders.

 

“No, I think you are the better person of us two,” Boromir said with a strange smile. “do no not let anyone tell you otherwise.”

 

“Guards are coming… Bilbo… get away from here!” Fili warned them. Bilbo slipped on the ring and ran towards his next destination. He did not try to listen back to the fighting.

 

ADL

 

Fili had just cracked the lock on Dwalin’s cell when the guards came, they turned on the dwarf at once, not seeing Boromir who had been hiding in a dark niche to the side. They exposed their backs to him, never caring to check whether the dwarf acted alone. Sloppy, they felt too safe and it was their doom. The human warrior attacked swiftly, not taking any chances. Still, when his blade sank into the neck of the first elf, a cold pain sparked inside Boromir’s soul, he had never wished to kill one of the Firstborn, and now that he had to it pained him. But he did not let it stop him, making swift work of the both of them.

 

The cell door opened and he tossed their swords to Dwalin and Bofur. “Fili, take Bofur to get the others, Dwalin you are with me,” he decided. “We are going down deep to free Kili.”

 

The dwarves took the weapons and followed them. “Kili is held somewhere deep?” Dwalin asked, as they hastened down an empty hallway, thanks to Lachanar’s help Boromir could predict most of the guard’s patrols and evade them.

 

“He was taken for interrogation. Bilbo is already on his way to Thorin.” Boromir informed him, he stopped, recalling the description of the path that Bilbo had gotten from Elrohir and related to him. “This way…”

 

Dwalin growled. “If I meet that Elf King again, he meets my axe.” Anger and hurt were very clear in the warrior’s eyes; even the news that Thorin had survived the stabbing had only marginally tempered his rage.

 

“Hate is a wasted emotion… at least that’s what I keep telling myself.” Boromir said in a low voice. “and I need your clear-headed now, Dwalin. If breaking into their interrogation chambers does not raise the alarm, I don’t know what will.”

 

They followed a narrow tunnel down towards the lowest level of the dungeons; they found the way that had been described to Boromir, only to step into a nightmare.

 

ADL

 

_Kili could scream no longer, his throat unable to produce that kind of noise anymore. For a while he had lost all will, letting the Orcs do with him what they wanted. But when their pale leader approached again, he knew what was coming; the Orc took great pleasure in breaking Durin’s line. There was a part of Kili that wanted to die, even if his besmirched soul would be wandering the Grey endlessly, it would be better than this, than being an Orc plaything. But somewhere in the deep of his soul there was another part that still hung on, that knew there was something beyond the nightmare, beyond the endless torment. There was a light shining beyond the darkness and Kili would not surrender as long as it was there. Still… he could not tell how much more he could take, the pale one always was the worst. Closing his eyes Kili sought for the light in his mind, trying to find a place where they could not reach him, the light that shone beyond the pain and the degradation._

Snapping from the illusion Kili found himself in the elven chair with his interrogators present, they were startled he had woken, their eyes wide with shock. Unarmed against four elves Kili knew he had no chance, even unchained as he was. But he did not care any longer; he would die like a warrior should, not scream his life out in their magic toy. He shot forward, using the moment of their shock, to grab the dungeon master’s arm, spinning him around he yanked the elf’s dagger free, ramming it into the side of the one who controlled the chair. He pushed the dungeon master down, tackling the guards first.

 

His mind had gone all cold, he did not feel anymore, neither pain nor the torment were present any more, only an icy detachment as he assessed the guards coming at him. There was no room for thoughts of feelings, only facts entered his calculations; within seconds he had seen their attack angles and weapons, the positions of the four guards, and was already racing across the far side of the room to draw them in the right directions. Pieces of the plan fell into place within seconds, the first guard threw a knife at Kili, as did Number three, while Number two was changing from knives to his heavy broadsword, and the fourth was effectively blocked by the dungeon master trying to get back to his feet.

 

All seemed to stand still, only his heartbeats ticked down slowly.

 

The first heartbeat came and the knives missed Kili who had ducked, by a hair and hit their unintended targets; guard number one had killed number four, and in turn number three had killed guard number one only a second after. Fast and clean.

 

The second heartbeat came quicker and Kili reached guard number two, his dagger meeting the elf's bracer, deftly Kili spun around and delivered a kick in the stomach that threw the elf backwards and into the next blade of guard number three, he died in blood impaled on his comrade's sword.

 

The third heartbeat, nearly as quick as it should feel came and Kili threw his dagger at number three hitting home into his heart, The elf died, collapsing into a puddle of blood on the floor.

 

It hadn’t taken more than three heartbeats it seemed but they felt like hours to him.  He had killed the four guards seemingly without effort. His hands were bloody, and he did not want it any different. Raising his bloodied fingers, Kili drew them across his face, starting above his left eye and ending under the right one. Coming around he hit the dungeon master hard, throwing him back to the ground, pinning his shoulder with the man’s own sword to the ground.

 

"Father!" He heard a horrified shriek, spotting a young elf who had just entered the room from the other side, if that didn't look like dungeon master's brat… "Come in, my boy," Kili drawled. "Your father has something to show you."

 

Boromir could hardly believe what he was seeing. The guards in the interrogation room were dead, blood staining the floor, the dungeon master nailed to the ground by his sword through the shoulder and Kili stood in the center of the room, blood smeared on his face. His hand around the throat of a young elfling he had lifted off the ground. “You don’t like your father’s games, do you?” The dwarf asked, seemingly cheerful. “But we have just begun to play. Maybe he will show you what he really likes… just a little… a taste.”

 

He looked down at the dungeon master. “You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you? I saw your pleasures after all…”

 

“Please… no,” The elf pleaded. “don’t…”

 

“Maybe I should toss him in the chair,” Kili mused. “Maybe the pale Orc is still there, he certainly would enjoy some Elfling sport for a change.”

 

The dungeon master was shaking, fear in his face. “Please… not my son,” he pleaded. “Kill me if you must, but please… not my son.”

 

Kili put his foot on the elf’s throat. “Why not?” he asked. “Why should I show you any mercy?”

 

Boromir could see the rage, the raw pain and the sheer darkness in Kili that moment and he understood him, he had been put through too much and was lashing out at his tormentors. Jumping down from the ledge the Gondorian landed in the middle of the room. “Because you are not a killer of children,” he said calmly, trying to reach Kili through the bond.  From the other side of the bond, he could feel things so horrible and so painful; he needed every bit of his strength to not block it out. He did not allow himself to recoil from it, Kili needed him now, and he could not let go. “Because you are better than them.”

 

His words broke through the haze Kili was in. “Boromir?” The word was whispered, disbelievingly. He looked at the elfling in his grip and threw him away like a rag doll, yanking the blade out of the dungeon master’s shoulder, ready to go for the hurt young elf. “Watch him die.”

 

“Kili, no!!” Boromir stepped right in front of Kili’s sword, trying to find dwarf’s pained gaze. Green eyes meeting smoldering black. “Kili… what they did to you was unforgivable, but killing a child does not make it right.” He wanted to rip these elves apart, to avenge his friend, but Kili did not need vengeance, he needed a friend. “You are better than them, stronger. I know you, Kili, you would never forgive yourself slaughtering a child, no matter the reason. Please… don’t do this to yourself.”  Kili’s blade nearly touched Boromir’s chest and he faced him calmly, unafraid.

 

The young dwarf’s hands began to shake, the pain breaking through the rage and the blade slipped from his fingers and cluttered down on the floor, moments before Kili nearly collapsed on himself. Boromir caught him, holding him as Kili broke down in painful tears. Wrapping both arms around him, he cradled Kili against his chest, just holding him, letting him know he was not alone in the pain. He knew that Dwalin was guarding the entrance to this place, grateful the powerful warrior was here with them.

 

“They hurt me…” Kili’s voice was painfully hoarse. “They hurt me… so bad… I just want to hurt them back…”

 

“You want that now, but you would only hurt yourself if you did it,” Boromir did not know if Kili even heard him, it was better for the pain come out like this than being bottled up. “Don’t give them this power over you… they are not worth it.”

 

Slowly Kili stilled, the tears stopping and his breathing evening out. He pulled back from the embrace, able to look at Boromir again. “Thank you,” his voice was still raw but he was back in control. “You helped me to break free… and … you prevented me from…” he could not say it.

 

“That’s what friends do for each other. Warbrothers owe each other their lives and they’d not have it any other way.” It seemed ages that Boromir since had heard that sentence, and it was the only answer he could give.

 

Kili wordlessly put a hand on his shoulder, understanding echoing in the bond. He pulled himself up. “We better get out of here before they discover the mess.”

 

ADL

 

It was easy to tell that the alarm had been raised, Thorin thought, as the patrol rushed past them. He hoped that the others had made it out of their cells and were on the way to the meeting point. Bilbo’s plan had worked impressively well so far, and the Halfling had shown is burglar qualities again. Still, they were not out of this yet. The stairwell leading out of the dungeon proved a nasty surprise with three elven guards coming out of the shadows cutting them off. Growling Thorin raised the dagger, he wished he had a sword to take them on, but he would fight nevertheless, even if his chances were bad.

 

The sharp hiss of arrows cut through the air, as an archer on the upper stairs shot two of the guards. Thorin lunged forward, killing the third of them. Looking up he expected to see Kili but was all the more surprised to see Lachanar, who had turned and shot two more guards above them. “The tunnel is clear,” the elf told them. “hurry, I will draw them off.”

 

Bilbo and Balin hastened towards the indicated path, Thorin stopped before leaving the stairs, his eyes finding the elf. In this moment the dwarven leader could not even begin to say what his feelings towards his former friend were. “Lachanar… thank you.” He said before following the other two into the tunnel.

 

They were away from the dungeons and swiftly approaching another part of the underground palace. Thorin saw Gloin and Óin hasten in their direction; they were covered by two taller figures, two elves with swords drawn. Perplexed Thorin saw Elrohir, using his sword to cut several arrows out of the air, the elf kept between the escaping dwarves and the guards, forcing the guards to risk shooting him instead of Gloin and Óin. His companion – Aelin – did the same, only that his sword was bloody, he clearly had fought someone.

 

“Thorin, thanks to the Light, you are alive!” Elrohir’s voice reflected his genuine relief.

 

The dwarven King had known from Bilbo that Elrohir was aiding their escape, but he had hardly expected seeing the son of Elrond here, sword in hand; ready to fight his own kind. Elves did not fight their kin… they had not done so since times beyond memory. “Not for their lack of trying, though.” He grumbled, as they retreated behind a stone door that cut off the chase for now.

 

“So I heard,” Elrohir sheathed his blade. “And I am all the more glad, you are still with us.”

 

Thorin realized they stood at an underground quay near the river; his people were assembled here, swiftly rearming from a pile of armor and weapons that looked much like theirs. He too was glad to have his armor and sword back. Having them back made him feel more like a warrior and less like a prisoner once again. “Why did you help us?” he asked, he had never seen elves side with strangers against their own kind. Lachanar may be driven by guilt and by a king beyond reason but Elrond’s eldest son had neither reason nor obligation to help them.

 

“Because I do not leave friends to rot in a dungeon,” Elrohir replied. “No matter who threw them there. And you as good as accepted my help on your quest…”

 

Amazed Thorin met the elven Prince’s eyes, when he had indicated he may try Elrohir’s courage to face a dragon, it had been in a banter between warriors, both testing the other’s temper and disposition. He had not expected the elf to take it this seriously. Now, as he met the storm-grey eyes he could only see sincerity in them, as crazy as it seemed, the Prince truly was here to help them, choosing them over his kin from the Woodlands.

 

Before Thorin could say a word, movement from the other end of the quay interrupted them. “Elrohir, I need to speak to you.” The Woodland Prince had appeared there, obviously intending on having a conversation with Elrohir, but his eyes widened when he saw the dwarves. “You are helping them escape…” he said disbelievingly.

 

Elrohir drew his sword and advanced on the quay placing himself between Legolas and the others. “Yes, I helped them escape and I will see them out of here safely, Legolas.” He said firmly. “What your father is doing here, is wrong, is vile. He nearly killed Thorin, he had Kili tortured… were he here this moment I’d sink this blade into him and call it justice served.”

 

“How can you judge him like this?” Legolas asked, drawing his daggers, he knew he was no match for the much more warlike and experienced son of Elrond, but he could not back out either. “He has been through so much…”

 

“How can you make so many excuses for him?” Elrohir asked back, the elf fell into his favorite combat stance, the Guard of the Winterhawk, that would allow him to defend the spot he stood on well, without demanding much footwork. “Can’t you see he is not in his right mind?”

 

Legolas attacked, Swallows in flight, a swift double jab was his opening, followed by Singing Winds and Falling pebbles, resulting in a barrage of stabs, jabs and cuts, hailing down on Elrohir.

 

The warrior blocked the attacks as swiftly, answering with Stone Stands, Leaves falling on the pond and Raining tears, not one of the many attacks touching him, each caught by his swift blade. “That’s the only answer you have Legolas? Attack because you can’t bear the truth? Your father is touched by something…”

 

“I know!!” Pain echoed in Legolas’ shout, even as he attacked again. “And I can’t do anything! Even if I wanted to… how could I take the one thing that keeps my father in this world?!”

 

Elrohir advanced, shifting from Guard of the Winterhawk to Lynx runs on ice, a swift, dangerous charge and disarmed Legolas, the daggers cluttering on the stone floor as he flung them out of the woodland elf’s hands. “You better tell me what is going on here, Legolas,” he said. “For it may be the only way to help your father.”

 

ADL

 

Legolas sat on one of the bitts at the quay, nearly oblivious to anyone except Elrohir, who had guided him there. The older Elf, could see how distraught and hurt the Woodland Prince was. “What happened to your father?” he asked him, trying to be gentle, curbing his anger for the moment. He could see Thorin speaking to his men, the short conversation between Kili and his father certainly not an easy one. Elrohir was glad to see his friend on his feet, there was so little he could do for him.

 

“It was the year after my mother… after she faded from this world,” Legolas began speaking. “Her loss left father bereft, hurting. For a long time we feared he would fade and follow her. But then… on a hunting expedition he believed to having seen a Huirorn, a Tree Spirit, in the forest, he seemed so much more alive that day… he began to search for the Tree Spirit first with other hunters and then more and more alone. He went deeper and deeper into the Southern forest until he found him. When he finally returned he brought a sapling of a black willow with him and planted it in the gardens. He was so happy, so alive… he seemed better, more willing to remain here.” Legolas sighed. “But he changed, he spends more and more time there, with the tree and he changed… you saw him.”

 

Elrohir could see the pain in Legolas, the shame of his house being so exposed, the fear for his father. The Woodland Prince was young, he had lived a sheltered life inside the forest of his people. “We will find a way to help him,” Elrohir said encouragingly. “Aelin… Huirorns?” he asked, having only a vague idea of what creatures they were supposed to be.

 

“Tree Spirits, they lived in the woods of Doriath,” came the prompt answer. “They were creatures of Melian, the Maia who dwelt there and died out after she left. I recall hearing my Lord Maedhros discussing them with Lord Aikanáro of Dorthonion and he said that some lived in his woods as well but he did not trust them to be as well natured as they appeared to be. I doubt any survived the destruction of that land, though.”

 

“You would know,” Legolas snapped. “Your destruction of those lands killed the last of them.”

 

Elrohir stopped his anger before it could get any further.  “This is not the time to judge the past, Legolas. Aelin is my friend, and he is here for no other reason or obligation, than that. We will need his skill and knowledge if we want to free your father. If the tree was found in southern Mirkwood, I doubt it is a well-meaning creature at all.”

 

“But… what if you slay it, and it also means the death of my father?” Legolas asked, too tired to discuss the presence of a Fëanorian warrior among Elrohir’s fighters.

 

The son of Elrond studied him with a sad expression in his eyes. “It is of course for you to say what we shall do or not,” he said. “But what would you prefer for your father? Death and a return to the undying lands, or life in madness?”

 

Legolas stood pain still clear in him but calmer now. “You are right, Elrohir.” He said firmly. “May I ask your assistance in freeing my father? I do not know how many of the people in the palace this thing influences… and what it may do when attacked.”

 

“I will send the dwarves on their way, and then we will join you to free your father.” Elrohir decided swiftly. The dwarves should be able to handle the boat without their help.

 

“Nay, Elrohir,” Thorin said, stepping away from Kili to whom he had spoken last. “We will not run like cowards or thieves. We will help you to fight this thing.”

 

It was hard to say who looked more surprised at the dwarven king in exile, Legolas or Elrohir, when he announced this. Elrohir was quicker to find his tongue again. “It is an honorable offer, Thorin, but why?” he did not try for polite inquiries with the dwarf, he knew Thorin was direct. “This matter is none of your concern.”

 

“That’s what your people say of mine, don’t they?” Thorin said. “That we search for riches and do not care for the woes of others? Not all of us are quite as selfish.”

 

“You have no reason to help us…” Legolas pointed out, not sure what to make of that offer.

 

Thorin eyed him coldly. “Make no mistake, Woodland Prince, what happened here will never be forgotten, and will never be forgiven. But leaving your people at the mercy of some dark creature would be as great a cowardice and betrayal as you father committed when he left my people to the dragon.” It was all he had to say to the son of Mirkwood, once this was done he’d wash his hands off the entire brood.

 

The proud dwarf’s eyes met Elrohir’s. “You came to my aid twice already, Prince of Rivendell,” he said. “And I will do the same for you.”

 

The dwarf’s noble offer truly touched Elrohir, Thorin had no reason to aid him here, and yet he still was offering, because it was the right thing, the honorable thing to do. His eyes went past the dwarf to Kili, who stood close to the wall, pale and shaken. Fili was with him, and of course Boromir. Elrohir knew enough of what the young warrior had been put through. How could he even think of asking Kili to aid them in this? After what had been done to him?

 

Kili looked up, their eyes meeting. “Thorin is right, Elrohir,” he said, his voice rough. “It would be an Orc’s deal to leave these people to that creature, even if they deserve it. We don’t do that for them – but for you, my friend.”

 

There was a glint of pride in Thorin’s eyes when he heard his son’s words. Elrohir inclined his head. “It is a noble offer, Thorin, and one I am grateful for.” He extended a hand, which the dwarf clasped, sealing their alliance.

 

ADL

 

Legolas led them through the halls of the palace towards their destination, Elrohir kept up with him, and the others followed. The whole group of fighters consisted of Elrohir’s companions and the dwarves, they were the only warriors they would rely on, in this place. Elrohir could see Legolas was nervous. “You fear for your father,” he said in a hush as they climbed the long stairs leading to the royal gardens.

 

“I have reason to,” Legolas replied. “And those coming to save him, bear him little love. I should prefer the help of…” He sighed, knowing that this was all the help he would get. “Let us not speak of it, Elrohir.”

 

The royal gardens lay in shadow; shade grass lined the dark pools of water above which the dark willow tree rose. The long branches of the tree touched the water, hanging low. Close to the tree trunk Elrohir spotted a sleeping figure. “Legolas, you have only one task: get your father away from here, leave the fighting to us.” He ordered, casting a glance to Thorin.

 

The dwarven leader eyed the tree distrustful, Orcrist in his hand shimmering softly. “I do not like this,” he grumbled. “This place, it reeks of darkness.”

 

Elrohir could only agree. There was something here, something sinister and evil. He watched Legolas lift up the sleeping figure of his father, he obviously had done so before because the tree did not hinder him. Once the Prince had safely reached the exit of the gardens, the fighters advanced, from three sides they went towards the tree.

 

They had not gone three steps into the garden when something rose from the ground, slinging itself around Elrohir’s ankle; he tried to pull free only to see long thin hands rising from the ground, trying to pull them under. His drew his sword, hacking away the first of the ugly hands coming from the ground.

 

Thorin spat a curse, the whole garden had come alive, and first it was the hands trying to pull them under, followed by thorny creepers like lashes attacking them. Orcrist cut through them like through butter, but there were many of them, they all were scratched and torn when they managed to free themselves of the creepers and advance further.

 

A sick slurp sounded from the Earth, when the murk released a dozen foul looking worms, when they opened their mouths they spat a pale acid at them, the stench alone was horrible, but he also saw one splash of the acid burn right through Aelin’s gauntlet, the Noldor did not pay any heed and attacked the worm all the more fiercely.

 

Thorin attacked as well, he fought in conjunction with Elrohir, the two of them the ones to lead this foray. Four of the worms came at them, Thorin beheading one before it could spit at them, Elrohir’s blade embedded itself in the throat of a second one, they ducked at the same time so the worm spit flew over them. Coming up they finished off the next worms.

 

Boromir and Kili were the first to reach the tree, they had made it past the worms and sinking murk with the snapping reptiles suddenly emerging from the ground. But once they came too close to the tree, the branches reached out, trying to strangle them, Boromir’s sword cutting away the swishing willow branches just in time. Kili spat a curse, dodging the swishing branches. He trusted Boromir to cover him, as he knelt down using the steel of his blade and a stone to spark a fire, the flame of the blacksmith aiding him, setting the tree trunk aflame.

 

A shriek rose as the tree shook in agony, when the flames licked up the long tree trunk. Smoke rose from the bark, the whole black tree shivered and shrieked. And suddenly the smoke formed a figure, tall and armored, a frayed red cloak draped over black armor. Black hair framing a hard if good looking face.

 

“Tungar-Sula… it can’t be…” Elrohir paled, he had seen this man before, centuries ago in the deeps of Carn Dum.

 

Thorin saw the Elven Prince freeze in shock and he acted all the faster, he sprinted at the enemy, raising Orcrist, ready to attack. Whatever this thing was, man, sorcerer or apparition, he would end it here. Their blades clashed, steel shrieking on steel, Thorin broke free with one fluid motion and attacked anew. The dwarf fought with the merciless strength of his people, fuelling all his anger, all his wrath into each hit that came down on the figure that had emerged from the smoke. Orcrist battered the armor, cracking the black plating effortlessly. Thorin ignored his own injuries, the danger, with a fierce will he broke his opponent’s cover, sinking the blade into him. The figure of Tungar-Sula collapsed on itself, dissolving into a cloud of stinking fumes as the tree burned down to the ground.

 

Chest heaving heavily Thorin turned around, seeing Elrohir just impaling another crazed plant creature that would otherwise have gotten into his back. The entire garden was a battlefield of plants, boney hands and worms, all their fighters showing signs of battle, but victorious. “You knew that creature?” he asked Elrohir as they shook hands, elated by victory.

 

“Aye, I met him a long time ago, in Carn Dum,” the Elven Prince said. “And I believed that Aelin had finished him off.”

 

So the creature had been older and fouler than they might have known. “Do you think it will stay dead, this time?” Thorin asked.

 

“I do not know, but I will warn my noble Grandmother about what has been haunting this place. She will need to know, before… before seeing what can be done about Dol Guldur itself.”

 

The battle was over but the war was still ahead of them, Thorin could see that clearly. “Then we better both leave, Elrohir,” he said. “I need to bring my people away from this place, preferably before their king regains his senses and blames us for destroying his garden, and you need to warn your great Lady about the dangers in this land.”

 

Together they left the gardens returning to the river gate. Their fighters all exhausted but no one had fallen in the fight at the gardens. When they came to the quay Thorin stopped, turning to his companion. “Elrohir,” he did not use any titles, this was not between Lords or Princes, but between two warriors now. “You said you wished to join me on this quest, and should you decide so you will be welcome with me. But… should you be needed to prevent further evil in this land, assist those of your kin who truly fight it.” Thorin could well imagine that the High Lady of Lorien would not wish to lose such a fighter in the confrontations to come and he did not wish the elf to feel obligated to join a quest that was not his.

 

Elrohir inclined his head. “You have my thanks, Thorin. Once this is done, I will find you, you have my word.”

 

ADL

 

In the deeps of a dark dungeon below the ancient fortress of Dol Guldur a figure manifested from fire and smoke, it was the form of a man of bronze skin and black hair, violet eyes shining into the darkness, his body was scarcely covered and he had troubles standing. He spat a curse in the native tongue of his people, before he was seen and two others hurried to him. “Tarkhaine… you look like you incurred the wrath of someone,” the man approaching him said, handing him a cloak.

 

Trakhaine stretched, it felt good to be in his own form again, after spending so long in a different shape. “You could say that, Val,” he said dryly but relaxed. This place was safe, the few living daring to tread it, were all from the east, the best and most loyal entrusted with the secret of Dol Guldur. Val himself had been instrumental in strengthening their Lord to the point of manifestation long ago.

 

A cold echo whispered through the place, just a wordless touch but he could feel that he was summoned. No other call, nor words were needed. Each of the Easterlings here had been serving for centuries, their lives prolonged through the dark powers wrought upon them. Trakhaine drew the cloak around himself and climbed the stairs from the dungeon up to the highest tower of the ancient citadel. He was expected by a dark figure, armored and vague, like a shadow. He knelt at once, eyes down.

 

_You were discovered?_

 

He heard the question in his mind. “Yes, strangers came. Some Elves and Dwarves, they attacked me directly. One of them wielded an ancient sword that destroyed my Treewalker shape.” He did not know where the dwarf had gotten that blade, but it had effectively destroyed the shape Trakhaine had been wearing, the shape that had been given to him when he had been set on his task.

 

_You lost your control of the Elf King?_

Trakhaine looked up. “Not yet, my Lord. They made the mistake to take him out of the battle, if I am swift, I think this can be salvaged. But they spoke of attacking you here.”

 

_They are already preparing for that, Nighthawk, they think that they can destroy me. My use for the Elf King wanes, but if you can regain control of him…._

 

“It can be done, my Lord,” Trakhaine knew he would have to be given the blasted tree shape again. He had lived with that for so long, but he still disliked it. He preferred his own body, or rather the body he had been given when his original form, the body he had been born with expired long ago. This form had been a gift by his Master and Trakhaine was proud of it. “Thranduil is weak, his heart lonely, he longs for the hold the tree offered him. And he has yet to realize what I truly am.”

 

_Good. You will return to him and you will lead him to his destruction. It is time to make a pyre of these pitiful elves._

 

The shadowy figure approached him, touching his head, sending a wave of pure agony through his body. Trakhaine gritted his teeth, not one noise of pain coming from him; he bore his Master’s gift gladly and embraced the pain it brought him. When it was over, his own body had once more faded and he was back in the shape of the treewalker.

 

_Go. Destroy the Elf King. Lead him to his doom… make him an example, Nighthawk. When all is done, return to the dark city… this hill of darkness will have burned by then._

 

Trakhaine bowed his head to the floor, before he rose and left the tower. Even while he had to hurry to return to his mission and to Thranduil’s halls, he could not help to feel excited. The time had gone, Dol Guldur might burn in the enemy’s fire, but from the flame the Dark Lord would rise again. One age after the lost battles the darkness would rise again.

 

Stepping to an empty window he changed form, becoming a black Nighthawk, flying north. He had to find Thranduil, he was not through with the Elf King yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a lot of thanks for the wonderful Harrylee94 for help, suggestions and reading the chapter… sometimes when I write I can practically hear your voice now.
> 
> The chapter title was taken from James Fenton’s wonderful haunting poem “Out of the East”. It is too long to quote here in full, so I will just give the passage I took it from:
> 
> “Out of the East there shone a sun  
> As the blood rose on the day  
> And it shone on the work of the warrior wind  
> And it shone on the heart  
> And it shone on the soul  
> And they called the sun - Dismay.”
> 
> Huirorn = Tree-Spirit/ Spirit of Trees; as far as my meager skills in forming Sindarin Words reach. They are an invention by me, no Tolkien material. 
> 
> Lord Aikanáro of Dorthonion = Aegnor (Eldest brother of Galadriel)


	18. Scars of the body, scars of the soul

The boat drifted out of the elven territory and down the river, it was enchanted Thorin guessed for it needed little handling, to stay its course downriver. With all that lay behind them Thorin was exhausted and glad Mirkwood when vanished in a distance. He heard familiar steps approach, it was Fili, who had come out of the fight in the gardens with many scratches and his blond mane unusually disheveled. Nevertheless he actually hugged Thorin. “I thought the elf had killed you.”

 

Thorin returned the hug if quickly, keeping an arm around his nephew. While he still could perceive the strong likeness to Dari in him, it did not hurt anymore to see it. “He almost did,” the dwarven leader replied. “It was a very close thing.”

 

“What do you mean?” Fili asked, worry shining so very clearly in his eyes.

 

“My soul was ready to leave this world… I found myself wandering the Grey,” Thorin said. “But I was not alone; someone wanted to keep me alive…”

 

“Who?” The younger dwarf asked.

 

“It was your father who found me and guided me back to the world of the living.”

 

“My father…?” Fili asked softly.

 

“Yes, Dari, he found me wandering by the dark river.” Thorin explained. “Without him I would have been lost.”

 

“But… what was he doing in the Grey?” Fili asked, he had heard stories of the Grey and the passage of the Neverseas for all his life. “I thought he would have gone home to the great forge… he did die an honorable death…” He looked at Thorin. “You said he did!”

 

Gently Thorin clasped the confused dwarf’s shoulders. “He did die an honorable death, Fili,” He repeated, seeing the doubts in his nephew. “He was sent to the Grey… permitted to go there. He came for me…”

 

Fili relaxed a little. “So… he found you?”

 

“Aye, he found me there,” Thorin said, and he actually found he could smile at his old friend’s memory. “He said he wants to wait a long time before seeing any of us, and then he expects heroic stories about dragon killing.”

 

“Then we had better find a way to defeat the dragon, hadn’t we?” Fili asked, he may not fully understand what his Uncle spoke of, but he could see that whatever had happened had healed an old wound in him and he was happy to see that. If Fili was completely honest, he remembered so little of his father, that he hardly missed him at all. Sure, he had cried as a boy, when Thorin had returned from Azanulbizar bringing the news of Dari’s death. With their mother busy aiding the many wounded survivors, the two dwarfling brothers had cried for their father and soon found the anchor they needed in their Uncle. If Fili missed his father, it was because he saw the pain Dari’s passing had brought Thorin.

 

“We better had,” Thorin agreed, both their eyes straying to the bow where Kili stood alone, arms crossed in front of his chest, long hair flying in the wind. The dwarven leader could easily tell that Kili was imitating his own posture to keep people away. He sometimes wished Kili was as open and uncomplicated like Fili, but the younger brother possessed all of the moody temper of Durin’s line. Lightly he squeezed Fili’s arm. “Get some rest; I will look after your brother.”

 

Kili did not move when Thorin approached him, his eyes remained fixed on the horizon, feet planted firmly on the planks of the bow, arms crossed in front of his chest, the whole posture combative and inapproachable. “We should be on the river for at least three days,” he observed, like Thorin had only come here to discuss their journey forth. “That should give our men time to rest.”

 

Where had he learned to retreat into the leader role to not let anyone see his wounds, Thorin wondered. It was not something he had done only a year ago. “I heard they took you for interrogation,” he said directly, treating Kili according to what he read in his demeanor, as a warrior and a Prince, not a frightened boy.

 

“They only remembered they had questions after you nearly died,” Kili replied dryly. “Even Orcs ask first and kill after but I guess Elves are quite new to behaving like them, so we should make allowances for incompetence.”

 

Thorin could read between the lines of this jab so easily, he had done the same in the past, make a joke of a bad situation, never showing how much he had been hurt. It was a good sign Kili did that, it showed he had not been broken. “What happened?” he pushed on.

 

“They asked questions, I refused to answer, they got angry and upped the game, I broke free, killed a few guards, Boromir came and got me out, end of story.” Kili said gruffly. “Maybe Thranduil should send that dungeon master of his to study _under_ Azog…”

 

“Don’t even joke about that.” Thorin snapped, shocked at the crude humor, the brutal joke Kili had just made. “It is nothing to wish on anyone… not for anything.”

 

Kili turned to him; he had yet to clean the blood off his face. “You think so? Good. One of us has to retain some noble attitude.” He turned and stormed off, to the other end of the boat.

 

Angered Thorin wanted to follow him, but found himself stopped by Dwalin’s huge hand around his arm. “Let the lad go,” the bald warrior said softly. “What they did to him… I can only guess at it all, but give him time to deal with it and come to terms with himself.”

 

A horrible realization settled on Thorin. “Dwalin… no… they did not…” He did not dare to think of it, no Elves, not even the worst of them, would do that.

 

“Not directly,” Dwalin replied, calming him a little. “I only sensed a little of what happened when they used that artifact on him… I do not have skill to sense artifacts, not beyond what you once taught me.”

 

Thorin relaxed a little, for one horrible moment he had feared the worst and was glad that Kili had been spared that. He curbed his temper and did not follow Kili. “How is it you read and understand him so easily, old friend?” he asked Dwalin, it was far from the first time the powerful warrior had shown an understanding for the young Prince whom he had used to call an imp and train on the practice field.

 

“He is much like you,” Dwalin said with the hint of a smile. “Only a tad more emotional, he gets that from Ida, I guess. Black dwarves have a fierce streak to them, but everything else is you.”

 

Thorin looked at the bald warrior and did not perceive any ruse, Dwalin meant every word. “I guess you are right,” he agreed. “let us find some sleep, who knows what will await us downriver?”

 

Night had fallen as the boat glided over the waves. Kili had tried to sleep, but the dreams would come, carrying him back to the Orcs, to the clawed hands of the pale one. The first time he had woken, he had hardly been able to curb a sob rising in his throat, he had cried until drifting off again only to end up in another dream that left him so sick, he had to throw up.

 

Standing by the boat’s side, looking on the dark water, the young dwarf tried to somehow calm his racing heart, hoping he had not woken any of the others. _Nice dragonslayer you are,_ he told himself. _Pathetic. A few sick Elven games and you go to pieces._ He swiped his hand over his eyes getting rid of the last traces of tears; he had to get a grip again, to somehow find control. For now he simply resolved not to sleep. Walking to the bow, he let the cool night breeze caress him and cool his hot face.

 

The stars were bright above, summer slowly waning he could see The Dragon sink beneath the eastern horizon, The Raven and The Hunter rising more to the center of the dark dome, and Neryaja, the bright star of the wanderer began to shine above the northern firmament again. How often had Fili and he followed the cold star that was said to guide wanderers home? Of all the stars of the winter skies he loved this one most, maybe because it would shine for those who were far from home.

 

“Can’t sleep?” He heard Thorin’s familiar voice; the dwarven leader had chosen his place of sleep near the bow and had been woken by his approach.

 

“I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you,” Kili whispered softly, trying to sound like a warrior should but his voice cracking slightly. How often on their long wanderings had he crawled to Thorin, when he had been afraid or had bad dreams? How often had Fili and he snuggled up to their uncle in the dark cold of winter nights somewhere on the road, too small to yet understand that the life they lead was irregular? With Thorin close the world had been alright, his strong arms around them all they needed to know that neither the wolves howling in the snows, nor the Orcs lurking in the mountains nor the robbers and highwaymen would harm them. And in this moment Kili wished for nothing more than to be that small again, only a dwarfling and allowed to seek shelter from the storm. “I… I just was thinking,” Kili eventually said.

 

“About what?” Thorin asked, sitting with his back to the side of the boat, eyes on Kili.

 

“Nothing really,” Kili evaded the question, hugging his arms around himself a bit tighter. He had to keep it together, he told himself. “just restless thoughts.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Thorin asked. “Sometimes nightly haunts are best driven away by bringing them out.”

 

“I’d rather not,” Kili shivered, arms braced closely against his body, like to stave off the cold wind.

 

He could not know that his whole posture was one Thorin could read, knowing it from other moments of pain they had been through. “Come here,” Thorin invited him, much the same way he had done when Kili had still been small, he looked at Kili and there was neither anger, nor impatience in his eyes. It was an expression Kili knew well, he had seen it when he had been small, in unguarded moments, when Thorin’s eyes had allowed him to say all the things he would not voice.

 

Sighing Kili sat down beside Thorin, curling up he had as like a child and burying his face in Uncle’s shoulder. He felt the strong arm curl around him protectively, and he closed his eyes.

 

Thorin was shocked Kili had never done this since he had been a dwarfling and he had never thought he’d do it ever again. Never having been shy, he had done this the first time a few days after Dari’s death, and later whenever he was afraid or had a nightmare. He had outgrown such childish behavior when he was about fifty-five, but now it was all back. Thorin knew this was a youth, a child really, seeking shelter, hurt and trying to hide. Again his worries returned, what had happened to Kili? He knew his son, Kili was proud and stubborn, he had worked hard to grow up quickly and reach the level of independence and skill he displayed, traditional dwarves, like Dáin’s people would call him older beyond his years, among the Exiles he was a reasonably well matured dwarf nothing more. For Kili to revert to such a child’s search for protection something must be so badly wrong, Thorin did not want to imagine it. He wrapped both arms around the boy, like he was still that little dwarfling, not trying to talk or ask what had happened. Softly Thorin began to hum a tune, it was a ballad of the Blue Mountains, of the summer by the icy shores of Forochel, after a while he felt Kili relax against his shoulder, falling asleep.

 

It was during the hour before dawn that Thorin woke, as Kili stirred, he had sat up, swiftly drying his eyes, obviously trying to sneak away before Thorin could wake. The older dwarf sighed inwardly, he had taught the boys to be strong, demanded they grow up quickly, because he knew that this world was not a place where one should expect mercy and that the blows fate dealt out would smash those not strong enough to stand. It took a stern heart and a soul of steel to bear living their lives, that’s what he had instilled into them, and they tried their best to live up to his expectations. But there was a small part of him that wished that they still were the dwarflings they had been all those years ago. “Kili,” Thorin gave up his pretense of sleep.

 

The younger dwarf startled out of his reverie, straightening up, unconsciously, he sat in a posture a bit more away from Thorin, drawing himself into the role of a warrior once more. “I am sorry, I disturbed you.”

 

“Kili,” Thorin repeated the name, gentler than before. “You did not disturb me. Whatever happened… allow yourself to find strength in others when your own runs out.”

 

ADL

 

Thranduil’s anger had every guard and servant of Mirkwood walk on tiptoes, careful to avoid their king best as they could. The King had listened to Legolas’ words and then dismissed him in a stormy row. He had inspected the garden, pained to see the destruction the dwarves had wrought on his refuge. And Thunaár… how could they murder him? Had they not done enough harm? How could they attack a creature so much beyond their own ugly kind?

 

On the second day when Thranduil returned to the gardens, he spotted a familiar form in one of the burned Dreamthorn bushes. Hurrying to the limp form, he knelt down to find Thunaár’s badly injured body, lying in his own blood. How was it possible he had survived? Then, suddenly Thranduil understood… the tree in the gardens had not been the mother tree, the ancient willow deep in the southern forest had saved Thunaár for now.

 

Carefully he carried the unconscious Huirorn into the palace, not suffering any healer near him. Thranduil knew enough of the arts to help Thunaár, as much as was possible. With his tree destroyed and his link to the mother tree weakened, his life was not very stable. But thanks to Thranduil’s skills he woke during the night. “Did they hurt you?” Thunaár asked in a whisper.

 

“No, they came for you, the cowards,” Thranduil replied, his anger burning coldly. “Do not fear, I will not allow them to come near you ever again. Reserve your strength for healing.”

 

Thunaár reached for his hand, intertwining their fingers. “Too late… they took the withy… they knew…” He did not manage to say much more, falling unconscious again, but Thranduil understood. The withy was for a willow tree what the acorn was for an oak. Thunaár could not grow back his original form without it, and confined into his spirit form he was condemned to wither and die, even if his ties to Thranduil kept him from perishing right away.

 

Looking at the Huirorn’s sleeping form, Thranduil felt not only anger, but the true will to fight again, he had not felt such will in an age. “Do not fear, Thunaár, I will bring back your withy, they will pay for what they did to you.” He left the Huirorn to sleep and rest, as he strode out of the room, Thranduil called for Malenior, the warrior he had named Captain-General of Mirkwood after dismissing Lachanar in disgrace. Malenior was a capable and loyal fighter and it was time to muster the army.

 

ADL

 

Another day had passed on the river and Kili stood at the bow, watching night fall anew. The day had helped him a little to regain his composure, though he still wondered how he should sleep, for the next days if not weeks. At least he had managed to not tell Thorin of all that happened, on the one hand he was too ashamed to ever share what had transpired in the chair and on the other hand… it would hurt Thorin more than Kili himself, so he kept it away from his father. Steps approached, it was Boromir, the Gondorian had quite a distinct stride. He did not try to make conversation, if someone had mastered the skill of not talking to an art, it would be him. “When you escaped Minas Morgul…” Kili began speaking, he may have shared only a vague memory of the escape but it had told him enough of what had lain behind his friend at that time. “How did you come to term with what happened? With the memories… the dreams?”

 

Boromir stepped up to the bow, hands grasping the side of the boat. “Time,” he said. “It took time. At first I simply kept the pain inside during the day, spending the nights curled on my bedroll, trying to hide from others that I was crying. It wouldn’t do to let the other soldiers see, and my brother… I did not want him to see me like that. One friend noticed still, Thoroniâr always was perceptive; he would wake me, whenever I had nightmares. I learned to sleep less, to startle out of dreams quickly… and after a while, I realized it had been more than a year and I was still alive. It gets easier, Kili, time is a great healer. Having a mission also helps.”

 

“So you say that focusing on the dragon will help with the dreams?” Kili asked, wondering if it could work.

 

“If he gives you enough to worry about for a while, it will.” Boromir knew that dreams could eat you alive, burn your very soul. “And you don’t have to bear it alone. Your father will not think any less of you, nor will Fili…”

 

“You wouldn’t bring your pain to your brother either,” Kili pointed out. “And I understand why. It will not help and it will only hurt them. I wish… I wish I had a forge and a fire, to work all the pain out into hot iron, until there was nothing left inside me anymore.”

 

Boromir touched his shoulder, making him turn so they would look at each other. “You don’t want to be empty, Kili,” he said firmly. “Empty means dead, ready to be buried. Take that pain, that shame, that guilt like you would take steel and throw it at the enemy, let it burn so horribly that even the dragon will fear that flame.” He knew his words might be the wrong thing to say, but when he felt the echo in the bond, he realized they were not; Kili was taking to that idea. He would shape the pain into a weapon.

 

ADL

 

Elrohir’s horse stumbled with exhaustion when he reached the Wilderland border and the elven camp there. Prying eyes would not be able to discern the tents hidden in the mists, the figures moving through the fog noiselessly. Celeborn, Lord of Lothlorien had brought his army, his best fighters, if his Lady wife was the power that would confront the dark presence in Dol Guldur, he was the sword that would carve her path there. He greeted his grandson warmly. “Elrohir, I had already begun to worry when you took so long.”

 

“I wish I had been faster, but things were not good at all,” Elrohir replied. “And I hope that what we did will at least ease the influence on Thranduil.”

 

“So he truly was under a dark influence?” Celeborn asked. He always pointedly ignored the Noldor riders in Elrohir’s company. “Come with me, Galadriel will wish to hear this right away, as will Mithrandir.” He led Elrohir to one of the tents, where his wife and Mithrandir had been conversing on the power amassed in Dol Guldur.

 

All three had silently listened to Elrohir’s report about Mirkwood. “I hope that burning the tree will free Thranduil from his… from the influence,” the son of Elrond finished.

 

“While I understand why you had to act swiftly,” Celeborn said, “Did you have to accept the help of the dwarves? They may well know how to burn trees efficiently…”

 

Elrohir rose. “Grandfather, forgive me for speaking bluntly, I accepted the help of a warrior I respect and of a dwarf I’d be proud to call friend and while I respect your own painful experiences in the past, the problems we have with Dol Guldur and Thranduil’s tree-hugging are enough without adding all the past to them.”

 

Their eyes locked, grandson and grandfather had clashed before, sometimes heavily, and this looked like another time they would collide. Yet Celeborn reined in his temper. “I wished to spare you the same pain, the same experiences Elrohir, but I will respect that you chose your own path. Do you intend to keep your word to the dwarf and aid him against the dragon?”

 

“I do,” Elrohir replied. “Once you know all there is to know about Mirkwood and Tungar-Sula’s presence in Thranduil’s palace.” He knew that Galadriel would be able to discern any residue presence and if necessary finish what they had begun.

 

“This quest is Thorin’s, it is the dwarves’ task to slay Smaug,” Mithrandir spoke up. “Much as your honorable stance might help ease tensions between your peoples… it is theirs to accomplish.”

 

“Then it is good that I already gave my word to help them,” Elrohir told him challengingly. “Because I cannot go back on that.”

 

It was Galadriel, who ended their discussion. “Elrohir, if you truly chose this path… it will bring you pain, danger… and maybe a banishment that will weigh on you like a burden.” Her vision was still wild, a storm was rising over Erebor and she could not see what would happen, but the whirlwind would harm many.

 

Elrohir knew that her warning was sincere and honest, she feared for him, and yet… he could not go back on his word, nor would he want to. Pain was always the price of loving this world, and in his heart he could not let go of this dark middle earth, no matter the price. “Then so be it,” he replied. “I thank you for your warnings, grandmother, but with your permission… I will see to my men, once our horses are rested we will head out again.”

 

Celeborn looked long at his grandson, albeit darkhaired and with the grey eyes heralding his sindar ancestors, he could see so much of Galadriel’s bloodline in him, the will, the fierce pride, the defiance… and also the strength and loyalty. The Sindar Lord knew all too well what price these traits had, what path they had driven some of the Noldor on, and he was not blind to Elrohir’s friendships. He cared deeply for his grandson, maybe exactly because of that, because he held all the traits that had originally drawn him to his Lady. “This is your path to choose, Elrohir,” he said, and there was no rebuke, only affection in his voice. “It is not for us to decide your fate. May Earendil’s star shine upon your path and guide you safely.”

 

ADL

 

Lachanar saw another column of warriors march down the street, the armies were mustering and there was little doubt what their intentions were. The former Captain sighed, even if had not given the Halfling his word to escape; now escaping had become a necessity. The army’s destination was no secret but they needed time to muster fully, it was all the headstart Lachanar would ever get.

 

It was the first time he was glad for his demotion to patrol captain, his horse was stabled in the outer parts of the city, and few of the elves there paid him any heed. Here among the simple elven people news of his stint in the dungeons had not yet spread. He had shortly returned to the simple home he had lived in for the last century, it was not much, a small place in the trees, still, it was the home he had made in the new life had had to build. Swiftly he gathered up his armor, not the regular guard weaponry, but his own armor, chainmail and leather harness above, sword and bow, along with a grey travelling cloak. The things he needed he stowed in the saddlebags. Looking around the room, he wondered if there was anything else he should take, for he doubted he would ever return here.

 

His eyes fell on a small harp, it had been a gift long ago, and he still treasured it. Carefully he packed it in the leather case and strapped it to the side of his saddle. He would take it with him, maybe the most meaningful thing from his life. Hurrying down the winding stairs he entered the stables, saddling his horse. Mistrunner had been stabled for days and was eager to get out. When he galloped towards the city gate he saw another marching column, in days past he had been Captain General, it took only passing glances to assess how many were mustered, and how much gear was broken out of storage. He did not like what he saw.

 

The gate fell behind and he rode on the road east until he reached the border of the woods. On the first hill of the open lands he stopped to cast a long look at the woodlands that had been his home. No more. There was no turning back now. He did not say farewell, but turned his horse northeast, they would have to cross the wilds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many thanks to Harrylee94 for talking me through the emo parts. You rock!


	19. Some people we never forget

A crisp cool wind blew across the lake, driving waves across the water; colored leaves were already dancing on the waves. Autumn was upon the city of the long lake, Bard did not need to feel the fresh chill in the wind to know the year was falling. The signs were everywhere, the sun would still shine warm during daytime, but the summer was already saying goodbye and soon enough the winds would turn north to bring storms and the long lonely winter to Lake-Town. Bard was not sure if he was looking forward to the coming winter, the Captain of the Town Guard harbored no illusions that the cold times would again bring some roving bands of robbers from Wilderland, and who knew what else would come creeping from the wilderness.

 

“Bard!” A familiar voice startled him from his musings; he turned around to find Egil, his second in command who had been in charge of the night watch. “Captain, it is good that I found you,” the soldier’s breath was flying, he had been running. “The Master wants you at the hall at once, we’ve had some strange arrivals and he will want your expertise dealing with them.”

 

“Arrivals?” Bard asked, as they began walking towards the heart of town. “It is too early for the last trading caravans of the Iron Hills to come through here on their way home, and the wrong time of the year to set out south…”

 

“Lookout spotted a boat coming downriver,” Egil reported, realizing that the alert that had startled him during the hour of dawn had not yet reached Bard. “Elven boat, came nicely as you please and we haven’t seen any of them in years.”

 

Silently Bard agreed, the Elves had systematically cut down the trade with them and all but retreated into their forest. “So, what do the elves want?” he understood why the Master called for him, Bard may not have wandered as far as some of his people but he knew the lands beyond the long lake fairly well and he could get answers from those of Dale’s former people who had dared wandering the wide world even further.

 

“It wasn’t elves at all, Bard, it was _dwarves_ ,” Egil’s voice still echoed confusion. “We escorted them to the Hall and the Master had them wait a little, so we could summon you and a few others.”

 

“Dwarves?” Bard did not need to ask that these could not be from the Iron Hills, Lake-Town was trading with Dáin’s kingdom and would not need to make any fuss over his people. “If he needs advise on them, he will have called for…” Bard did not finish the sentence, when the man he had just spoken off walked into sight. Standing even taller than Bard himself, the warrior crossed the street in a sharp stride. He wore chainmail armor and a two handed sword on his back, his long hair was of a deep iron-grey with the first white streaks mingled amongst the longer tresses. While more than twenty years older than Bard himself Hagil was still strong and a powerful fighter.

 

Bard had often wished Hagil had liked Lake Town enough to join the town guard instead of selling his skill as a warrior to whomever could pay enough. The old mercenary bore not love for this city, nor the Master, that he would still returned here faithfully and did his share in supporting Lake Town was owed to his loyalty to Bard and nothing else. Much like the man walking beside him, who seemed the exact opposite of Hagil. Only in his late twenties, as fair as Hagil had been dark, two curved blades on his back and wearing an armor of eastern make, Aiken hardly looked the descendant of proud Dale but much the mercenary that he was.

 

Both men stopped, when they met Bard, Hagil inclining his head, indicating a bow that he would only award Bard, while Aiken saluted him the fist over his heart. “Hagil, Aiken, I take it the Master called for both of you as well?” Bard asked.

 

“His messenger mentioned Dwarves,” Aiken said. “I wish someone would remind him that the only dwarves I know are mercenaries, and good ones.” Involuntarily his hand went to his neck, where a blackwork tattoo glittered on his pale skin, depicting the harp of Dale with a runic inscription.

 

Bard surely would not have expected Aiken to display the symbol of Dale in such a fashion; he held little love for the past. “Where did you get that?” he asked, wondering what the story was and how it linked with dwarves, as Aiken seemed to make that connection himself.

 

“I got it from a Dwarven mercenary during the Succession,” Aiken explained as they walked on. “He nearly killed me under the gates of Dunkarga. I had brought down Prince Tarkhan and already thought, if I could hold out until our men could break through to me and secure the catch the war would be over and a nice ransom on top of it all…” Aiken barked a laugh. “And then this dwarf charged me, not caring for the burning gate nor the arrows coming down on him, all rage and fierce will – two axes and he battered away at me… what a fighter! He nearly killed me, took me captive… good man.”

 

Bard arched an eyebrow, the question apparent in his expression. “It’s not like you to praise the enemy, Aiken.”

 

“Sure, but he was special. He could have sold me to slavery, I was his catch and could not offer any meaningful ransom. But instead he made me fight for him for the rest of the campaign. Said he had known Dale before it burned and wouldn’t bring harm needlessly on her sons. Before we parted ways I asked him for one of his famous tattoos and he made this one, so I’d have something to remember my homeland by.”

 

“He knew Dale?” Bard was amazed, of course he knew how long Dwarves lived, but he had rarely met a dwarf who had known the city of his great-grandfather. “I so envy you, having the chance to ask about Dale, hearing from someone who walked her streets…” He saw Aiken’s face and sighed. “You never asked, did you?”

 

“No, we talked of other things, how to get into Cymarkhand, what Varis Khan was up to… war and campaign, along with stories of battles old and new. He was one of a kind, and I’d gladly serve a few more campaigns under him, but I doubt my knowledge will be of any help with whatever dwarves came from the elven lands.”

 

“And neither will mine,” Hagil added, the old mercenary had listened calmly to the story, knowing the life Aiken led, having chosen none other for himself. “I knew _one_ dwarf, decades ago, not to mention that Kadan was not quite right in the head. I would prefer not having him mentioned where other dwarves can hear, he never wanted… he never wanted others to know.”

 

Bard sighed, what Hagil said was true, even as Bard’s own memories of Kadan, the ancient mad dwarf were hazy at best. “You two have had more dealings with dwarves outside the Iron Hills than anyone else in town,” he told them, Bard often hated the fact that like others of his people Hagil and Aiken had gone to seek fortune in far off lands, finding no true home in Lake-Town. The people of Dale were a scattered nation, and while the children would come back to the Long Lake, at least for having their children named, to marry and to be buried, many preferred the tough life in foreign lands to the narrow confines of Lake-Town. “And I may need your insights.” Neither of them would help the Master easily, but they would always come through for Bard.  

 

They reached the town hall, a well-crafted wooden building and entered through the side door. The Master was already expecting them, an old man with a peaked, thin face he greeted Bard with a smile. “Bard, it’s a relief you came, I have not seen such warlike folk arrive at our city, since the envoys of the Iron Hills returned home… and they looked tame by comparison, I well feel saver knowing you are here.”

 

Inclining his head, Bard took his place to the left, Aiken and Hagil at his back. While he and the Master did not always see eye to eye, he understood that the old man was frightened. He had been a trader first and a councilor later, a man of peace, with a mind for prosperity, war and those who chose the life of the blade over productive work, scared him.

 

The doors of the hall were opened and Bard understood all the better, the group of dwarves – ten dwarves, one man and one smaller creature, a dwarfling maybe – walked in. All except the last well-armed, and carrying their armor and weapons in a way that bespoke ease, those were warriors of lifelong experience, and they were not afraid to show it.

 

The Master rose from his chair to stand. “Welcome to Lake-Town, travelers. It has been long since we saw strangers come to our city. May I ask who you are and what brings you here?”

 

The group parted, making room for their leader to step forward and Bard held his breath. The dwarven leader was easily recognizable by his presence that left no doubt on who was their leader. He held himself with a presence and command that demanded attention; long ebony colored hair with a few braids framed a proud face. By his side stood two younger warriors, one dark haired, one blond, but both carrying some unmistakable similarity to him.

 

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” the dwarf announced proudly, “and these are my sons, Kili and Fili of the House of Durin.” There was a visible pride with which he introduced his two sons.

 

Bard could not believe it, and yet he did beyond the shadow of a doubt. He had only been a child when his aged great-grandfather, blind old Girion, had told him of Dale and Erebor and of Thror the Great King of the Dwarves. He had spoken of his son Thrain and the grandson Thorin, whom Bard’s grandfather Gerion had at least met prior to the destruction. He felt the Master’s gaze upon him, the old man certainly did not know what to do with the situation, Bard gave him a small nod, indicating he believed Thorin’s words. He had once dared to go up to the ruins of Dale and had seen the ancient dwarven statues at the mountain; this dwarf bore too great a resemblance to them.

 

“Be welcomed to Lake Town, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror,” The Master spoke. “It is with great joy that we see some of the noble dwarves our friends of ancient Dale have spoken of so much, come here at last.”

 

If Thorin found the speech strange, he did not show it. “The people of Dale are still living here?” he asked, with some surprise. “We feared they all perished when the dragon came.”

 

The Master smiled slightly. “They have lived here for four generations now, Thorin, some present in these very halls. But… let us not stand on such strict formalities. Be welcome as a guest in our city…”

 

He was interrupted by the head scribe hurrying in, his face in such a worry that it did not need anything to tell he was bringing troublesome news. The Master waved him close to hear the whispered message and sighed. “I have to apologize for cutting our greeting short, Thorin son of Thrain, but some things demand my immediate presence. My people will show your group quarters where you can rest, and mayhap you may find some of Dale’s people to speak to all the same.”

 

The dwarf took it better than Bard had expected, the Master of the city was a man of industrious business and would always cut short ceremonies when they stood in the way of money earning, but guests did not always like being treated that way. The grandson of King Thror took it with a calm that was admirable. Bard saw the small nod the Master gave him, asking him to take care of this.

 

Once the Master had left the atmosphere in the hall relaxed a good deal, Bard wanted to approach the group to show them where they would find rest, as the Master had indicated, but that was cut short, by a bald dwarven warrior, approaching them instead. “By my beard, Aiken… you should have said you were still living in the shade of the mountain!” He exclaimed, as they greeted with a forearm handshake.

 

“Dwalin! So you meant it when you said you were going home to fight for your King!” Aiken laughed. “Had I known you were coming here…”

 

So this was the dwarven mercenary that had nearly killed Aiken under the burning gates of Dunkarga and that had spared him slavery… somehow it touched Bard that the dwarves, the proud and indomitable dwarves too were reduced to mercenary work and fighting for coin. It was bad enough that his people would do it, but the dwarves… the way his great-grandfather had spoken of them, this sounded impossible. Or maybe… maybe Dwalin was the exception. A King in Exile might not turn aside a mighty sword-arm, no matter what the man’s occupation otherwise was. Bard himself accepted Hagil’s and Aiken’s support even when he shuddered that they had sunken to mercenary work.

 

Within moments Bard found his assumptions again faulty, when Thorin joined them. “Dwalin, you know these people?” he asked.

 

“Aye, Aiken fought for me in the war of the twins, his family came from Dale.” Dwalin replied. “But I had no idea that there were more of their people still living at the lake.”

 

Aiken actually had not lost his head, or his manners. “If I may…” he spoke up. “This is our leader, Bard, grandson of Gerion of Dale.”

 

Thorin looked at Bard with calm steady eyes. “I knew Girion of Dale and his son Gerion,” he stated respectfully. “And I am glad to learn that they escaped the destruction of Dale.”

 

“They often spoke of your people, and of your house Prince Thorin,” Bard replied, falling back on how his grandfather had spoken of Thorin. “Were they still with us, they would be overjoyed to see your return. But… this is nothing to speak of in the hall. If you will come with me, I shall show you to your quarters.”

 

When they walked outside, Bard felt Thorin’s piercing gaze on himself. “It is good to see some of your  people survived,” the dwarven king stated. “I saw your city burn… and I doubted anyone could have made it that day.” There was an audible shudder in his voice, when he spoke of Dale burning.

 

Bard could not help it, he was awed, he walked by the side of one who had seen Dale on her last day, who had survived to come back. “Those who survived made it into the wells, the water systems and the old sewers where the fire could not reach them. Girion… my great-grandfather always said that the water saved the survivors and… your brave stand at the mountain. Had you not fought like you did the dragon might have returned for us.”

 

“Girion?” Thorin asked, remembering the proud King of Dale, he could see some likeness in Bard, even as the soldier had little of the proud bearing of Girion. “He survived that day?” The assumption it had been their fight that had kept Smaug off the fleeing populace, was too kind. The closing of the siege doors had been an act of desperation, the bravery of one warrior who gave his life to give his King a chance to escape.

 

“He did survive indeed, Prince Thorin,” Bard told him. “He lived for long years here by the lake, before he died as a truly ancient man. He often spoke of you… of your grandfather.”

 

They arrived at their destination; the hall where Lake-Town housed guests had been built for their various trading partners and would have to serve for the dwarves as well. Bard showed them around swiftly, he was sure the Master would host a small feast for them during the evening and they would wish for some rest until then. When he was ready to leave them, Thorin stopped him with a short gesture. “Bard, could you stay? I would like to hear more of your people, and how your family has fared since… since Dale was destroyed.”

 

ADL

 

Asbiorn usually learned of events at the city late, because his workshop was on the northern end of the city, all trades that were to work with fire had been placed there, it was dangerous to have them in the city at all, but while a town might be able to make do without a gaffer, a potter and a blacksmith were things the city needed and it was not safe to settle on the shore and thus the few fire-related trades had been moved to a small rocky island at the north side of town. Asbiorn had been working since the morning, in the warm times when trade was high, his work was in much demand, to see horses shoed and cartwheels ringed, he had noticed some commotion during the morning hours, but he had heard quickly what was going on from Islar the old potter who had told him that dwarves had come to the city, not those from the Iron Hills but none other than the King under the Mountains. There had been no end to this talk after that, especially amongst the people from Dale, to whom Asbiorn belonged.

 

He had kept working, not caring for the talk, the axe blades that had been ordered would not make themselves. Even a King with an army at his back would stand low chances against a dragon, and a King with only a few followers even less. And even if the army of the King under the Mountain was still coming, all Asbiorn would hear of it would be demands for horseshoes and blades sharpened. At least that was what he kept telling himself as the day wore on. However he may talk to Bard later in the evening, if there was something to these rumors… if the men of Dale armed all their people and supported the dwarves they might provide the lacking numbers… provided there was a decent plan to deal with Smaug the Magnificent.

 

It was well into the afternoon when the excited voiced of Asger and Athalwyn, Asbiorn’s sons made him look up from his work. The boys stood in the entry of the forge and stopped two strangers from approaching. The strangers were only a bit taller than the children, but both only four feet tall, they had to be dwarves. One of them was blond, the other dark haired, and both of them were clearly amused about Asger, who stood before them with a staff longer than himself. The seven year old boy, was trying to look all threatening. “What do we have to do for you to let us pass?” The blond dwarf asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

 

“Teach us a song to exasperate our mother,” Athalwyn piped up. “One with Trolls and other bad words in it.”

 

Asbiorn bit his lip not to chuckle; he had warned Franhild to not be so strict in that regard, because the boys now knew how they could get their mother into a state.

 

The dark haired dwarf laughed. “But of course… listen…” he began to clap his hands, in a near dancing rhythm.

 

“One and two - a troll will come for you,

Three and four - the Orcs are at your door,

Five and six - they put your head on sticks

Seven and eight – the dragon is on his way…”

 

With the last his hands shot forward clapping right in front of the startled boys, and Asbiorn saw a hint of sparks in the clap. Both boys laughed, delighted at the song and the trick and let the dwarves pass, beginning to sing the new song for themselves.

 

When both dwarves entered the smithy Asbiorn could see they were carrying a veritable arsenal of weapons with them, blades, axes, knives and an assortment of throwing knives and axes. All of them looked like they had seen a lot of fighting recently. “You’ve come for repairs,” the blacksmith observed. “I am Asbiorn, welcome to my fire.”

 

Both dwarves bowed. “Fili and Kili – at your service.” They spoke like one, once the greeting was done with, the dark haired one spoke on. “You are right, Master Smith, we are here for repairs, but we would prefer it if you allowed my brother to do our own work, in exchange I will assist you with whatever work you have.”

 

Asbiorn pointed to the left. “The sharpening wheel is over there, if it is all you need, you don’t have to work for me in exchange.” He said.

 

The blond went over to the sharpening wheel, unloading the whole weapon’s pile, before settling to work. The dark haired one – Kili – looked at Asbiorn. “I’d still like to assist if I may,” he insisted. “You are very friendly to allow us to do the repairs and… I could do with some forge work for a change.”

 

Dwarves often were very skilled at the anvil, Asbior knew but this one was still young. “If you can find a way for yourself to reach my anvil, you can help me.” Asbiorn decided, testing the dwarf. The anvil was high, because Asbiorn was a tall man and the dwarf was only a little above four feet tall.

 

Kili, Asbiorn tried to remember the name, had to have worked in a smithy of men before, because he was clearly acquainted with the size differences. He looked and spotted the stump Asbiorn used to test weapons and pushed it beside the anvil for himself to stand on. Quickly discarding the coat he wore and the armor underneath, only with the bloodstained leather tunic he wore beneath, he joined Asbiorn at the work. “Axe blades?” he asked, seeing what the blacksmith had been at.

 

Asbiorn handed him a hammer and tong. “Exactly, see you keep up.” Working together on such things required skill, but Asbiorn quickly found Kili did not lack in that area. He was strong to provide the hold with the tong and his hammer hit precisely where needed to hammer the axe blades into shape. Only the fire seemed to become hotter, for the axes they worked on, remained white hot as long as they needed them to and only cooled when it was necessary. When they had put the last of them into the water too cool, Asbiorn handed the dwarf a pitcher of water. “It is really true what they say of your people, Kili,” he observed. “You are born to this.”

 

Fili, who was working on removing the scarring from a blade, looked up with a grin. “It takes only a few decades in the smithy to get that far… and any old dwarf will tell us that we are whelps.” He said good-naturedly.

 

“How old are you?” Asbiorn asked, putting the finished weapons from the water to full cooling on a rack. He had seen enough dwarves from the Iron Hills to tell they had to be young still.

 

“I am 82,” Fili said. “Kili is 77,”

 

“Nearly 78,” Kili pointed out, he had gratefully taken the pitcher and gulped down some of the water. “What’s next Master Asbiorn?”

 

“But… but that makes you youths still!” Asbiorn knew that dwarves only became of age in their 90s. He could at once see the eye rolls of both of them.

 

“We are not from the Iron Hills, Master Asbiorn,” Fili said. “We are of the Exiles, our people become adults once they reach the age of seventy, have forged a weapon and killed an Orc and a Warg.”

 

“I apologize,” Asbiorn said, still surprised, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills jealously guarded their young, protecting them fiercely. Was this what had happened to the survivors of the great kingdom of Erebor? Having to wander, to survive, their children growing up swiftly? He looked at Kili. “There isn’t much left, you helped me make short work of these axes.” Thoughtfully he studied the dwarf, the way he had worked bespoke years of practice and the way the fire reacted to him… Asbiorn did not really believe the legends, but he would much like to.

 

“Nothing really? No other work you have to do?” Kili sounded disappointed. “Mahal, I’d even do horseshoes or arrowtips.”

 

“I have the feeling those horseshoes might give the poor mare troubles,” Asbiorn laughed. “Too much fire in them. But…”

 

“But what?” Kili asked. “I will do my best to not make the horseshoes fiery, if that’s what you fear.”

 

So he was aware of what he did. Legends and stories, Asbiorn thought, this was the day they seemed to come to life. It would be worth to find out how much of legend was in this one. “I’ll make you an offer, Kili,” he said. “I will give you the materials for two good weapons to make. What weapons I leave to you, in the end I keep one the other is yours.” If Asbiorn’s hunch was right, they might need good, very good weapons, soon enough.

 

Surprised he saw Kili’s face shine in an honest smile. “Master Asbiorn, I’d make both of them for you, if I can just have a night between fire and anvil,” he said, meaning it. Asbiorn had rarely seen such a happy expression connected with a night of hard work in the smithy.

 

The night had already fallen and Asbiorn sat on the wall that ran between the pillars supporting the projecting roof of the smithy. He had rarely been patient to watch work done at his anvil, but this time it was worth it. Kili required little help and if he did his brother was there to provide it, it was clear the brothers were used to working together but Fili seemed to be willing to leave his brother to it. And while it would take some of his material storage, it was so worth it…

 

“There rarely are still hammers ringing in your forge at this time, Asbiorn,” The blacksmith turned around, surprised to find Bard standing outside, beside the pillar. “And even rarer that you are allowing someone else on your anvil.”

 

“It is rare to see someone who could teach me a few tricks still,” Asbiorn replied, honestly. While both dwarves had been unfailingly polite, always referring to him as ‘Master Asbiorn’ their skill surpassed him. And watching a true spellsmith work… that was a privilege and pure profit on his part. “Bard… I had my doubts about many stories about the dwarves, but after seeing these two… maybe the stories of Erebor were all true after all.”

 

Bard looked past him, to the figure at working at the anvil, the warm right light of the fire illuminating the young dwarf as his hammer rang out on the greatsword he had begun. It was like a picture from ancient legends, of stories about the great dwarven smithies of an elder age. “Kili and Fili… the sons of Prince Thorin,” the bowman observed. “And I thought my greatfather’s stories about Durin’s house were exaggerated.”

 

“They are the sons of a King?” Asbiorn could not believe it, both seemed so much like normal people, neither prideful nor haughty.

 

“King only if he can deal with the dragon,” Bard said, rubbing his chin. “Don’t get me wrong, Asbiorn, Prince Thorin is an impressive…dwarf. I am honored that I got the chance to meet him, to speak to him but… they could not defeat the dragon then, with all their armies ready to fight.” He had not asked Thorin for his plans; he had not found it in himself to question the dwarven Prince in Exile so directly.

 

“No dragon ever has been killed by an army,” Kili spoke up, not interrupting his work; he simply turned the blade to the other side. “Fili… have a knife ready, this blade will need its first cooling in blood, the second in water, third in tears I think.” He looked up at Bard. “There has been no dragon in history slain by an army. All the great ones, were killed by one man in the end. It is not the numbers that make a good plan.”

 

Asbiorn made room so Bard could come inside and the Captain of the Town Guard joined him. “So you truly think that you can defeat Smaug?” he asked. “Make no mistake, I have been to that mountain two or three times, and I am sure he is still inside.”

 

Kili cut his wrist, the blood touching the hot iron, Asbiorn watched as the blade cooled unnaturally at the touch of the blood. Kili went back to working, letting the heat dry the cut on his arm. “Of course the dragon is there,” Kili said. “Anyone who thinks he died of old age indulges in wishful thinking. The trick will be to scout him out, assess his strength, relative position inside the mountain and work all that into our strategies. Once he is airborne it will be too late.”

 

Bard could hear that the young dwarf must have been thinking about this a lot and he found it easier to question him than Thorin. “So, let us say you find a way inside, this is your mountain, you will know the backdoors. Smaug will smell you, and fighting him in closed quarters… your people failed at that before.”

 

Kili’s hammer came down harder than before. “Bard. They were not prepared and they had a civilian population to protect, the situation was totally different.” He put the blade back to slowly heating up and turned to the second weapon he was working on, which looked much like a hammer. “This time it is only us, so we can devise different strategies for him, once we know more. His strength and shape will certainly determine much of what can be done. I understand that you are concerned, should Smaug take to the air, your city would be the first target in his immediate range. Which is why I still would prefer to finish him inside the mountain, in close quarters the chances are better to get to his soft underbelly.”

 

“Aren’t you a bit young to talk of dragonslaying and planning on strategies that all sound like a fancy way to suicide?” Bard asked, he had seen the dwarf Prince during the greeting and could quite certainly tell that this young warrior would count for no twenty years of a human lifespan.

 

Fili, who had helped Kili with the tong but now had a break while Kili worked on, walked over to Bard. “When the dragon came your people suffered, Bard,” he said in a warm voice. “He came for us, but our doom was also the doom of your people and we are not blind to that. Your people are as much exiles as ours are. And… wouldn’t it be better if both our people could go home?” He asked.

 

The Bowman sighed; he had often thought such thoughts, and especially seeing on how many of his people chose wandering over the life in Esgaroth. The city had no room for all those who had come from Dale, and he had seen the slow changes wrought on his people. “Prince Fili,” he began, wondering what he could possibly say. “While I would love to lead my people back to Dale, I have doubts the Dragon can be defeated. Legend may claim that the great dragons of yore were defeated by single warriors… but legends rarely walk in the broad daylight of our days.”

 

“We do not ask you to come with us,” Kili said, between the sounds of the hammer. “If we fail to kill Smaug, your people will lose nothing except maybe a few legends… and as you said, legends do not walk this good earth. If we win, then our peoples both will return home from Exile. All we ask for is a little time and maybe your good wishes.”

 

And there was it again… he had felt that before with Thorin, and now with his sons again. Bard’s mind had doubts, reason and experience telling him that it could not be done. But his heart whispered that this Dwarven King was the legend they had been waiting for, that Thorin would not try if he had no chance. And his son… he held the same fire, if they only asked, Bard would go with them and dare the Dragon and it frightened him more than any other foe, or even the dark things from Dol Guldur would. “You will always have the good wishes of my people, Prince Kili,” he replied. “You and all your family.”

 

ADL

 

The same night the Master of Lake Town held a meeting of quite different proportions in his house. He had entertained messengers before, but never before had he entertained the envoy of the Iron Hills at the same time as a messenger from Mirkwood, and never in all their lives they had agreed on one person: Thorin Oakenshield. This uncrowned dwarf king was seemingly no little trouble, and while the messenger from the Iron Hills feigned concern over the peace of the lands and Thorin’s state of mind, the Elven Envoy was here to speak of the clear intentions his people held towards these dwarves.

 

The Master was no stupid man, he could see many options in what was transpiring here. And it was true that Thorin had only few warriors with him. Once the dragon was out of the picture… should something happen to them the vast riches of Erebor would be ripe for the taking. “I cannot do much against him… at least not until the dragon is off my back.” He explained to the elf. “But once that is done… provided the Iron Hills withhold any support for Thorin Oakenshield, I will gladly aid his demise.”

 

The elven envoy was satisfied with that, the army would need time to march, either way, he even promised to reopen the trade route through Mirkwood if the Master of Lake-Town honored their deal. The envoy of the Iron Hills stroked his beard, betraying a kinsman was a serious accusation, but… they already had told Thorin that they would not support his quest. They could stand by that and ignore all pleas for aid without being traitors. Both of them left satisfied and the Master smiled, if he played his hand right, it would bring Lake Town a new age of trade and prosperity, along with a share of the famed hoard under the Mountain.

 

ADL

 

Morning came and the fire in the forge still burned in white flame. Two weapons lay glowing on the anvil, one a greatsword and the other a warhammer. They had been heated in flame and cooled with blood, reheated in red hot fire and cooled in water and now they glowed in white hot flame and with all the power wrought into them only tears would cool them. Kili stood at the anvil, his skin scorched and marked with sooth and ash, but he felt more alive than he had during their travel downriver. He knew what he needed, purposefully he closed his eyes, making himself think of the pale one, of the dreams… facing it on directly, no shying away, no further evading all that he had lived through in the nightmare. He choked, a sob rising in his throat, a dry, hot sob, but he did not allow himself to look away, he forced himself to relive it, to see it again. The tears came; hot and painful they touched the glowing weapons and with a hiss evaporated. No river of tears would truly cool a weapon but these sealed the powers wrought in the hot metal and cooling them. Kili did not cry long, with every tear vaporizing loudly on the weapons the pain lifted, until he could look at his fears, at the pale one, coldly. He breathed deeply, putting both weapons into the barrel to cool fully.

 

Asbiorn watched awed, he did not know where the dwarf had gone to summon the tears to finish his impressive work. But it had been a dark place, he could see that. But now, as Kili put both weapons before him for inspection, the dwarf was calm and steady again. Carefully examining both weapons, he could not help but marvel. “If that is the work of a youth, then I would not dare ask what your father could do.” He said awed, this one, Prince Thorin, probably could make blades that would go down in history.

 

Fili and Kili exchanged a small smile, they both knew what Thorin could do, only that he rarely did go all out and allowed the fire to work through him like this. “Which one do you wish to keep?” Kili asked.

 

The question brought Asbiorn back to their agreement of the previous evening. He had not expected that good a result. “Do they have names?” he asked. “I know many a weapon will be named after battle… but I have feeling that you know the names of these, their traits?”

 

“Fearbringer,” Kili’s eyes pointed to the sword, “and Stormcaller,” he indicated the hammer.

 

“I will keep Fearbringer,” Asbiorn decided, not knowing knew what the future may bring. Whether he would ever sell that blade, or whether it would be the sword Bard might need to retake Dale.

 

Kili took Stormcaller, he had to use both hands to lift the heavy warhammer. Fili had gathered up the weapons he had repaired and sharpened. “I think I know whom you had in mind when you made this, little brother.” He said with a wink.

 

“Aye,” Kili agreed. “There is only one for such a weapon, but how to make him accept it without muddling things hopelessly?” He leaned the weapon against the wall for a moment and went to the forge again, gently his hand touched the flames, they seemed to dance on his arm, and then burned all the brighter, even as the coal was long gone. Turning to Asbiorn Kili bowed. “Thank you for permitting me into your smithy, Master Asbiorn,” he said. “I hope one day to see you return to Dale.” He took the Hammer again and together the brothers walked out of the forge.

 

Asbiorn looked long after them as their figures vanished down the street into the morning dusk. He did not believe in stories and legends… no King of old had ever come back to rescue his kingdom from dismay. It did not happen in this world, but… but he found believed in one House returning to free their Kingdom. Fate strike him, he did believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: As already said in another chapter, I am working with a shortened timeline, so the dragon was only for about 120 years at Erebor. Bard as approximately 40 in the story.
> 
> Thanks to Harrylee94, who always is patient with me and keeps up with my crazy ideas. HUGS


	20. The Mountain awaits

The shores of the long lake Thorin remembered had been a green garden land, fields and crops as far as the eye could see, but that was a thing of long distant memory. Nowadays the shore of the lake was the gate to the wilderness, the desolation stretching north. The entire company was at the shore, loading the horses. The horses and provision had been a surprising but welcome gift from the men of Esgaroth for which Thorin was grateful, with autumn upon them time was running short to be at the mountain before Durin’s Day.

 

“Thorin?” he saw Kili approach him, his son had already saddled his horse, being one of the good riders in the group he had volunteered to take one of the larger animals. But he had something he wanted to speak to Thorin about, only that there had been little time in the city.

 

Walking over to the white horse, Thorin saw something lie beside Kili’s pack on the soft sands. A rather large warhammer, made of dark steel. He could at once feel the echo from the weapon, any spellsmith would and Thorin with his finely attuned senses could hear the weapon sing to him. “Kili?” He asked, his eyes still on the weapon. “I take it you found a forge and time?”

 

“Something like that,” Kili replied. “what do you think?” he could tell that his Uncle was curious. Thorin was a spellsmith of tremendous skill and had taught Kili and his brother, the younger bladesmith wanted Thorin’s opinion on the weapon he had created.

 

Thorin picked up the hammer, the shaft was made of steel as well and the lower end was spiked, to be used in combat as much as the head. Now that he touched the weapon he could feel the powers coursing through the metal, there was strength in this weapon, pain also and a lot of fire, this weapon was made for slaughter, to mercilessly weed out the enemy ranks and then to come back for more, it would never fail its carrier and would not break under any common attack, it also held a strength it would only yield to its true wielder… the weapon was one to ride a bloodstorm with and come out on top. In the hands of a weak wielder though it could corrupt the wielder to become a butcher… such weapons always had that precarious balance if the wielder was not strong enough for them.

 

Contrary to Boromir’s sword that was vibrant with rage and unbridled destruction, this hammer held less uncontrolled emotion, but it would bring a flood of blood and tears on the enemy. “What is his name?” Thorin asked, knowing the weapon had one.

 

“Stormcaller,” Kili replied.

 

A good name, Thorin admitted, fitting, this was the weapon of a warleader, of someone fighting in the front rank, calling down the storm of blood, the wrath of battle. “I’d have called it Widowmaker,” Thorin’s comment was friendly, a light joke between two arcane smiths.

 

“There is not enough hate in it for that,” Kili pointed out. “I have yet to master the skill to add cold to a weapon, icy rage and hate…”

 

Thorin put the weapon aside. “Kili! You have manifested the flame years before your time already and I would wish for you to never experience such hate and cold to be able to put itinto a weapon.” Thorin was sure that the only one of the three of them to safely use cold in his weapons would be Fili, he was the only one who did not need hate and desperation to reach that point. And it remained to be seen whether Fili would ever manifest the spark and be able to work powers into his weapons. The gift was rare. “And I am worried to see how young you manifested the skill.”

 

Kili shrugged. “It happened… it felt natural, like the fire has always been talking to me.”

 

Many of the great smiths had talked like that, Thorin knew, his own mentor most certainly had and he too could hear the whispers of the fire, the deep voices of steel and stone but… he had been well over one hundred when it had begun. And he had rarely allowed himself to go all out, usually he retained a tight control while working, the few times he had pushed to his limit had been draining, frightening. One had to be able to pull all of himself into the work, pour their very soul into the hot steel and trust one would survive the crucible. It took a generous,  giving soul, to do it, and a fearless heart to not fear the flame and the hammer. But Kili… Kili had an open, giving soul, Thorin knew that and while he was relieved to see that his son had not lost that trait in all he had been put through… he was worried. “Kili, there are dangers down that road,” he began. “You have to put a lot of yourself in such works, of your soul, of your heart… and you can easily get destroyed by the process.”

 

“Father,” Kili grabbed his shoulders. “The flame has to burn you to cinders and the hammer has to smash you while you work like this… only thus you can come through the crucible. You have to light the pyre and prove that the legend of the Phoenix is true. I know it is dangerous because you come to like it too quickly, and if you don’t control how much you do, you will drain yourself, but… I am careful at that, much as I love it, I will not burn myself out.”

 

Like it too much? Thorin was amazed at the thought, while he could do it and create great works if he chose to, it was a great measure of will he needed to pour so much of himself into one work, he always had to push himself to do it, he could not imagine to revel in the process and liking it too much. He averted his eyes, he knew that this was the fatal flaw in himself, the part of his soul that was greedy, that wanted to possess and not give. He had striven all his life to combat the trait that had driven his grandfather mad with gold, but he still carried it. All the prouder was he that Kili was free of the taint. “The next time you work… I would like to be there, to see it.” he said. “It is a good weapon you created, strong and powerful, the weapon of a warmaster.”

 

Kili smiled. “You know for whom I made it,” he replied honestly. “Mister Dwalin.”

 

Thorin understood why Kili had spoken to him first, the gift of a weapon from a Prince, especially a weapon said Prince had created himself, carried the connotation of an oath in itself. And Dwalin was sworn to Thorin, a thoughtless gift could create confusions in loyalties and Kili was well aware of that. Thorin’s eyes strayed past Kili and out to the lake. Born in exile and grown up under the guise of a nephew Kili had never been formally presented as a Prince of the Dwarves prior to their departure and when he had been on the day before departing for their quest no one had offered their servitude. The only follower he had was Boromir, and the warrior had been sent to him by a strange fate. Again anger rose in Thorin, both his sons, Kili and Fili, should have been raised a Princes, not wanderers. He considered simply letting this gift stand and see Dwalin’s oath transfer to Kili, the old warrior would understand and protect Kili as fiercely as he had protected Thorin. He liked Kili, was close to him already. No, Thorin was not ready to let go of Dwalin, he needed him.

 

“Dwalin was your weapon’s master, but after you passed the trial, we didn’t have a ceremony,” he said out loud, the whole situation had been messed up. Kili should never have gone against a whole warg pack, the trial should have been called off, and Dwalin had seconded him. It was something perfectly normal, many candidates asked for a second with less dire odds. But it had created bad blood, many felt the great warrior was favoring Kili and it had poisoned the situation after. By the time Kili had fully recovered from his injury Dwalin had been off, away for a war erupting in the east.

 

Kili’s eyes shone, understanding. “This is not exactly a ceremony but… a good place to thank him for training me.” He agreed. With what lay ahead, it would only be appropriate.

 

Thorin looked for Dwalin who had been discussing something with Boromir, pointing to Bifur’s pony. “Dwalin,” it did not take more than a short gesture of his head for the warrior to understand and join them away from the others.

 

“Thorin, Kili,” Dwalin said when he stood with them. “Is something wrong?” His whole demeanor bespoke the fact that he expected them to have some detail of the journey that was not to be shared with the group.

 

“No, things are all right,” Kili said, seeing the small nod from Thorin. “But with all that lies behind us now… and what awaits ahead, I remembered that I never thanked you for training me up as a warrior.”

 

“T’was a privilege, lad,” Dwalin waved it off, honest affection in his voice. “And you learned well.” The way Dwalin’s eyes strayed to the reaches ahead, the _I hope it was enough_ remained unsaid.

 

Kili had taken up the heavy hammer, he had to use both hands to hold it, and Thorin could see how the muscles in Kili’s arms tensed when he presented the weapon. “Dwalin, you taught me to fight, to stand and to face death like a dwarven warrior should,” the young warrior smiled at the older dwarf. “You have my gratitude for your teachings and your protection. May this serve you well.”

 

It was not quite the traditional words, but it was the words that fit best, Thorin thought, when Dwalin took the hammer with one hand, handling it with practiced ease. A part of this ceremony included – at least if the charge was of the royal house – forgiveness for all punishments the mentor had been forced to dish out over the course the training. In court it was a formal necessity, here it was clear that Kili had long understood why he had earned those many punishments and long forgiven Dwalin for the stern discipline. Thorin watched them embrace and then step back. He knew he’d never hear Kili refer to Dwalin as ‘Mister Dwalin’ again, nor would Dwalin grumble about the young imp that would be this old warrior’s death one day, that had been between mentor and student and now was past.

 

When Kili was called away by Fili, Thorin reached for Dwalin’s arm, holding him back. “Dwal,” he said, looking past the warrior to the northern horizon. “If…iIf I do not come back from this…” he sighed. “Keep an eye on them.”

 

“I’ll protect your family as long as I draw breath, Thorin,” Dwalin said fiercely. “But you won’t die on this quest. Even if I have to find a way to marry the dragon and Thranduil… but you will not die here. Not when we are just on our way home.”

 

Dwalin’s grumbling suggestion about Smaug and Thranduil drove away the melancholic mood Thorin was in, making him all the more glad to have his friend by his side.

 

ADL

 

The wind had turned; a cold gale was blowing form the north and clouds were gathering along the autumn skies, leaves where whirling with the wind, dancing in the air like they wanted to forget the coming cold. Kili rose in the stirrups to get a better view on the hills ahead, before guiding the horse to walk up to the ridge. It was the tenth day of crossing the Desolation of Smaug and he had often volunteered to scout ahead, to search for a path through the wilds. It gave him time to get acquainted with the grounds near the mountain and to think of possible plans. Many things he could see in this land gave him clues about the dragon, there were burned hills that had seen fire only in recent years, and there were boneyards where he had found the remains of the dragon’s hunts for hill goats and mountain sheep.

 

After finding these, he had also found a few other traces, including some old paw prints backed into the mud near a dying pool that told him something about the approximate size of the beast. None of these pieces of information were particularly useful right away, but they helped Kili to put together a picture of what he was faced with. He wished he knew more about the situation inside the mountain, but until then he could only learn what he was presented with about his adversary.

 

“You take to brooding like you want to beat your father at the art,” Boromir had caught up with him. “Any new tracks of the dragon?”

 

“Not much, another bone ditch west of us, Smaug the ‘Magnificent’ has been dining on wild sheep for a while,” Kili replied lightly. “He probably could also complain about too much mutton.” He had forgotten that Boromir could read his emotions through the bond; until he saw the glance the man cast him.

 

“Playing mind games is useless until you see the enemy formation,” he said.

 

“Voice of experience,” Kili found the sage advice made him smile. “It’s not just that, Boromir. I know I can’t form a real plan for the dragon until we have found the door inside and scouted his lair. It is… this place.”

 

“The desolation?” Boromir asked, as they rode ahead together, finding something of a stable path for the others.

 

“No, I am not bothered by finding bones and dragon traces all about,” Kili explained. “I don’t mind the dragon dung either, better to find it out here than inside the mountain.” He looked over the hillsides where brown heather and grass marked grey ridges. “It is this place… my father, Dwalin, Balin… they speak of this place like it is… beautiful and all I see is a waste worse than the lone lands. I see that mountain ahead and I am farther from home than ever.”

 

“It’s their homeland but not yours, not yet at least,” Boromir understood what Kili tried to explain. The young dwarf Prince had been born to Exile, growing up in Eriador or wherever the wanderings took his family. Home to him was the crumbling remains of Belegost and a smithy that was sitting on a half collapsed rock pillar.

 

“I don’t know if it ever will be,” Kili sighed. “I shouldn’t talk like that, father missed Erebor for so long, I shall have to learn to love this place. But…” He shook his head. “No buts. This is home, the Kingdom of Erebor and all we need to regain it, is to kill a dragon.”

 

They crossed another ridge and down in the vale they saw the scorched remains of a city, ruins of walls and towers slowly crumbling, the elements long having continued the work of the fire. In the grey autumn light the remains of the city looked gloomy and sinister but Kili smiled. “Now… that looks more like home,” he said with a wink to Boromir. “We better have the group turn west, or we should end up at the main gate.”

 

ADL

 

They made camp that night in the shadow of the mountain, standing at the mighty feet of Erebor for the first time in 120 years, Thorin had a hard time to fight off the ghosts of the past. Was this lonely desolate land truly the same beautiful country he remembered from his youth? Craning his neck he looked at the mighty flank of the mountain, finding the familiar sight hardly changed. Yes, this was home, his home, the Kingdom of the Dwarves. Gingerly he touched the grey rocks, feeling the rough stone under his fingers, the familiar echo of the mountain touching him.

 

“Sleep a few hours,” he told the others. “Tomorrow we begin to scout the area. We will go in groups, always two together. Balin... you are the sharpest of us, I want you to go with Bilbo. We need to find the right spot before Durin’s Day comes. Dwalin and I will scout the old sewer exit and the old ventilation shafts coming up from the deep. Kili, you and Boromir scout the main gate, assess the siege doors and anything else that might be of import there. Oin and Gloin, you take a look at the old high road and Bofur and Fili, you assist Balin and Bilbo. Bombur and Bifur have camp.”

 

They all accepted their tasks without much discussion. Tired from the ride across the desolation they all lay down to sleep soon enough. Thorin too stretched out on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to find sleep and finding it harder than usual. He was here again… in his homeland. His father and grandfather had dreamt of this day but both had died without seeing their home again. And even Thorin’s own journey here was an ominous one, it had been easy to believe in a sign back in the Ered Luin, back then in spring it had been so easy to believe that fate finally had given them a chance and a dragonslayer. Now, in the cold autumn night it was harder to stave off the doubts and the whole undertaking seemed more desperate than ever.

 

_Thorin was walking the high halls of Erebor, the usually busy and noisy city was subdued today, most dwarves making haste in their doings, but trying to do it quietly. Whenever they saw him, they bowed deeply, their kind words hardly reaching him. ‘Mahal with you,’ ‘Blessings upon your family’ and ‘The Deep’s blessings upon you.’ He hardly heard them and they did not expect their hero to truly recognize them. Not on a day such as this._

_The rumor must have spread quickly from the palace, that King Thror, Thorin’s grandfather had fallen ill. That was not such big news unto itself; Thrór was 243 years old and had become frail since the dragon’s attack. Some said that seeing his grandson battle the beast under the great gates of Erebor had shaken his old heart. The news that their old king had caught a winter fever would not have caused such a stir, but this time it was different, whispered the servants at the palace. This time it was worse, Thrór had not woken in two days, he was failing rapidly, he lay in fever… he was dying. The latter rumor had reached the city in the afternoon and ever since the subdued mood had settled in._

_Thorin mounted the long stairs to the palace, his own absence from the grand halls had been a reprieve from his grandfather’s illness, a time to breathe and calm down. “Thorin,” Balin came hurrying towards him, the councilor looked serious. “Please come with me… there is not much time.”_

_“Is it… he is not…?” Thorin could not say it out loud._

_“Aye, Lad,” Balin replied. “He is dying, he will be with Mahal before the night is out. He wants to see you.”_

_They reached the royal quarters where two healers just left, escorted out by the Captain of the Royal Guard. Thorin could hear Thrór’s voice in the background. “Send them all away, Daroin. The healers, the wise ones… all. I am King and I have the right to die in peace!”_

_“There are none left, Sire, the last have gone.” Thorin could easily discern Daroin’s deep voice. “But Prince Thorin is here.”_

_Thrór coughed. “Good. Send him in and that little brother of yours as well. Then go and find me a Goblet of wine, bring your harp while you are at it.”_

_Thorin entered the room, finding Thrór sitting on his bed, supported by cushions. All the councilors and healers were gone and Thrór leaned back on the cushions with some expression of triumph on his tired face. “Thorin,” he said with a smile. “I am glad you came. I already put it all in writing with the old vultures, but I want you here now.”_

_“Put what in writing?” Thorin asked confused._

_“You succession of course!” Thrór replied. “I can hardly die this night and leave my succession unclear. You are my only heir, the only heir I would want. The man who killed the dragon!”_

_“What of Thrain?” Thorin asked, he did not say ‘father’, he had not since the events during the dragon’s attack. While he was calmer now about what transpired, he still found it hard to fully forgive Thrain’s weakness._

_“Thrain? Pah!” Thrór waved it off. “He went crazy, ran scared, wet himself and ran screaming murder from the mountain. That is no King, and no son of mine. I hear he was found by some young fool down from Dale who took him in. Thrain is a Prince no longer. You… you are my heir. You defended the mountain and our treasures; you are the future of Erebor.”_

_Thorin bowed his head, accepting his grandfather’s wishes, he had heard praise such as this a lot, since that day and usually it was sweet to receive the praise for the fearful battle he had fought. “I was not alone in that fight, grandfather.” He reminded the old man._

_“Your guard did good and their duty. A good royal guard is treasure unto itself, remember that when you are King. Your boys did splendidly, and Fundins sons… now I will forgive him on going on siring children right until he died, he produced a number of fine sons. But you, Thorin. You killed the dragon, you stood when Thrain ran and our armies failed… you did it. I could not be prouder and you will make a fine King. Just spare me the long funeral speech – I have heard enough of those when they buried Nain. What a bore! No one wants to hear those dusty speeches, so make it short for me, will you?”_

_“You are not dead yet, grandfather,” Thorin reminded him. “And you seem much better today.”_

_Thrór shook his head. “No, my boy, these are my last hours. Soon I will go home to my fathers… I have seen Mahal’s shadow fall upon me and I am at peace with that. I know the treasure in good hands with you, you will protect the mountain and the hoard. You will be the new King. Now… I want to go happily.”_

_Daroin returned, bringing the Goblet he had been sent for. Thorin could smell the heavy note of a red Malvasian wine, Thrór’s favorite wine. The King took it, his eyes going to Daroin. “I did not do right by you, naming you Captain of the Guard, Daroin,” he said with a sad note. “Knowing I had so few years left.”_

_The Captain bowed. “I knew where it would lead, Sire, and I accepted gladly.”_

_Thorin tried not to look at him. Daroin would follow his King into the Grey and to Mahal’s halls, to fight for him. It was tradition and the reason why any newly crowned King would call someone of his own generation to the post of Captain of the Guard. But Thrór had outlived three captains, with Daroin the fourth to serve him. Balin and Dwalin would see their brother walk into the pyre voluntarily. Thorin did not want to think of that._

_“Aye, you did. Still, I wish I could leave you to protect Thorin… but we will have to leave that to your brother.” Thrór took a long sip of wine. “Did you bring that harp?”_

_“I did, my Lord.” Daroin replied, unbothered by the talk of his own death, he had known that it would come._

_“Good… sit down over there. This is my night of passing…” Thrór made himself comfortable. “Sing the ballad of the dragon, Daroin, sing of how my heir slew the dragon…”_

Thorin startled from his sleep, hands shaking, sweat beading on his brow. What had he been dreaming off? He buried his face in his hands, letting the pain wash over him. He had not killed the dragon, and his grandfather had not died in bed but on the blood field in Azalnubizar. His people had not known peace nor true prosperity in more than a century.

 

“Can’t sleep?”

 

Looking up he found Kili sitting on a rock, keeping watch. A short glance at the moon told him it was three hours before morning. “Shouldn’t this be Bofur’s watch?” Thorin asked.

 

“I couldn’t sleep and sent him back to bed.” Kili replied, he sat leaning back on his arms, relaxed, like he was just enjoying a cool autumn night outside the mountain. “Boromir was not tired either, sometimes we can split the night between us.”

 

“That makes three of us that don’t sleep,” Thorin observed, noticing from Kili’s words that his friend too was having troubles with rest. “I sometimes envy Dwalin or Fili for their deep slumber.”

 

Kili smiled warmly at the two sleeping figures a few steps away. “I don’t,” he said after a while. “Envying would be to want to be them… and I can’t do that. I am what I am, and I wish to be none other.”

 

“Who allowed you to grow up like that?” Thorin walked over, sitting down beside Kili. “I dreamt of the dragon,” he said softly.

 

Kili reached out for him, his hand finding Thorin’s shoulder. “He can be killed, Thorin. Greater wyrms than him have died. We will find a way, once we are inside the mountain. We got this far, we will go on to very end.”

 

ADL

 

Bilbo had always stated he liked holes and that being the Master of Bag-End meant having some interest in holes and their digging, preferably in a nice place with green meadows and much room for a garden, thank you very much. Now he was not so sure if this was still true. The day long journey through the desolation had been depressing as had their first nightly camp in the shadow of Erebor. But with each day they spent searching up and down the mighty flank of the mountain, Bilbo began to discover things about the lonely mountain.

 

Maybe it had something to do with Balin’s company, who would tell him stories about the mountain while they climbed up and down the narrow paths in the dry grass. But it was not only that, it was the mountain itself, grim and grey, it had a majesty and serenity that surprised Bilbo. Not even the mighty peaks of the Misty Mountains had made him feel like that. He often compared the mountain to Thorin, for there was a definite resemblance.

 

Meanwhile Bilbo found himself volunteering for more and more hours of searching the grounds and when Balin tired and could go no further, Fili would come along, or Dwalin would say he could do with a few hours of walking. To Bilbo’s own surprise he found himself more and more in Thorin’s company when they headed out. The dwarven leader was more restless than ever but he conducted this search with a will and vigor that Bilbo found inspiring.

 

Far too quickly Durin’s Day was upon them, and they were still unsure about the right spot. “Thorin,” Bilbo said when the light of afternoon settled in. “there was this place further up, we saw yesterday. I know we thought it too far up, but I think I spotted a trail leading there.”

 

The dwarven king looked at him thoughtfully. “Very well, show me the way.”  He said, following Bilbo as they walked across the mats of dry grass and past some of the thorny bushes growing there.

 

Climbing ahead, Bilbo looked for the point he had spotted the day before. “There, do you see that small trail leading up the rock face? I think it is a ledge, if we can climb it…” before he could go in he found himself lifted up, so he could reach the narrow ledge. Bilbo grabbed it and began to pull himself up, he had been right; there was a small path here. He turned around to aid Thorin but saw the dwarf already following him, climbing the rock like a cat. It reminded him vividly of the storm in the Misty Mountains and Thorin aiding him and Boromir.

 

“What is it?” Thorin asked as he reached the ledge, he had noticed Bilbo’s gaze.

 

“I just wondered… did you learn to climb here?” Bilbo knew that such questions were the easiest way to wake Thorin’s moody temper but the dwarf hated evasions even more than impertinent questions.

 

“I did,” Thorin said as they followed the broken path, balancing on the ledge. “Dwalin and I would sneak out of the Mountain and make forays all over the sides of Erebor. His brother Daroin would come after us, to punish him for slipping away from training and send me back to my grandfather like an unruly whelp.”

 

“So Balin and Dwalin have another brother?” Bilbo was astonished, he had already learned that Dwarven Families were complex and their genealogies differed from Hobbits, but he had never heard any mention of any relations of the brothers.

 

“Daroin died the day the dragon came,” Thorin told him, speeding up his step and deftly jumping over several rocks to get further up.

 

Sighing Bilbo followed, he knew this had been the wrong question, all too often questions would hark back to the terrible losses the dwarves had suffered. How could they live with that? What did Balin and Dwalin feel now, having returned to the place where their brother had died?

 

“Bilbo!” Thorin reached down to lend a hand, pulling him up. When the Halfling had solid ground under his feet again, he saw a small patch of grass with a huge grey rock and… a thrush was picking snails on the rock. “Stand by the grey rock when thrush knocks…” Thorin whispered. “This has to be it. Bilbo… it has to be.”

 

The Halfling looked at the rock wall behind the grass; it looked nothing different than any other surface on Erebor, only… smoother. The wall was even, with little to no spurs of rock, nor any other mars. “I think you are right, Thorin,” he whispered, a strange feeling settling on him. The sun was already sinking and this… this must be the door. When he had first heard this door spoken of it had meant little to nothing to him, but now that he stood here, it meant everything. This was it; this was what they had come for. The door into the dragon’s lair.

 

The last rays of sunlight fell through the gaps in the clouds, casting a warm red light on the rock, interrupted by the shadows of the few meager bushes. One single ray touching the smooth stone and the shadow lying upon it melted away, revealing the keyhole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D


	21. What must be done

“Bilbo, get me that stone over there, quick!” Thorin called out to the Halfling. The dwarf had used the key and opened the heavy stone door, at this moment his own powerful frame blocked the door from closing again. Bilbo understood at once what Thorin wanted to do; they needed to put something behind the door to prevent it from closing again. He ran to the stones the dwarf had indicated and swiftly brought them back, putting them firmly into the grass, to form a natural door stopper. Thorin relaxed his shoulders slightly, allowing the door to touch them. The heavy stone wing touched the stone barrier, pressing it deeper into the grass but unable to push it away entirely, keeping the door open. “Good work,” Thorin said.

 

“Thorin, Bilbo!” Balin came up the path; his walk was slow and bowed. Like all the others he had searched for the door for all day and now that night had fallen, things seemed for nothing. When the old dwarf reached them his eyes widened. “The door… you did find it!”

 

“Aye,” Thorin approached Balin. “Our Hobbit spotted the right place.” The dwarven leader could see that Balin was exhausted. “Stay here,” he ordered. “We will get the others to move camp.”

 

It was two hours after dark that the camp had been moved and the whole company sat around the small fire. Bilbo sat with them, between Fili and Bofur, having received a lot of praise for being the one who had spotted the right path. While it was great to be praised, Bilbo’s attention was more on his comrades that evening, they all seemed changed a little, more energetic, more hopeful, and some more tense. “Tomorrow I’ll begin to scout the mountain,” he said, it was what he had been brought along after all. His old self in Bag-End would be hiding under his bed in fear, and while he was still afraid, Bilbo found he wanted to do this.

 

“You can’t go alone,” Kili said, he sat on the other side of the fire, with Dwalin and Thorin, and he most certainly was one of those more tense and energetic this evening. “It is too dangerous, I will come with you.”

 

“No!” Bilbo said firmly. “You brought me along for this exact reason, to do what you can’t: scout the mountain. The dragon will smell you, Kili and will hunt us down right away… and Boromir don’t even offer, you are far too loud and clumsy. You stay out here and let the company burglar do his job.”

 

He saw Kili smile and Thorin looked at him in a strange way, something that looked akin to respect. “I… I am no warrior,” Bilbo added. “So you will have to tell me what kind of things to look for. What it is that you need to know…”

 

Now all eyes were on Kili, which made Bilbo wonder, when it came to the dragon more than just some of the group seemed to believe Kili was the one who knew what to do. “The first thing is to know where in the mountain Smaug resides,” Kili began speaking. “And what his shape is. Dragons, like most lizard-kin undergo changes of skin, which influences their scale armor.”

 

“Do not talk to him,” Boromir added after a moment of silence. “Dragons are cunning creatures and twist words with ease. He may learn things from you which you never meant to say.”

 

Several pairs of eyes turned to Boromir and the Gondorian shrugged. “The story of Glaurung says he used his voice to enchant his killer… and his sister too I think.” In all honesty Boromir hoped he was not mixing up legends here, whenever Fari had tried to tell him those stories he had not really listened. Who cared for dragons? And the stories about the battles of the first age, told all the wrong things, they focused on sadness and tragedy, instead of telling what kind of tactics the elves had employed. If the Feanorans had fought so long and so well, what kind of strategies had they used? Those were the things he was interested in, and no song would tell him that. Now he could only hope that his vague recollection would serve him well.

 

“It is a good point,” Kili supported Boromir’s opinion. “Dragons are indeed dangerous and cunning. Bilbo, do not take anything from the hoard, the dragon will know at once. We need information for now, not treasure.”

 

Thorin had taken first watch that night, and it took the camp longer than usual to settle for sleep. Dwalin relieved him of watch duty a little early, getting up as the moon only just reached full height. “Get some sleep, Thorin,” the warrior said in a hush. “I’ll stay up until its Glóins turn, provided Boromir doesn’t wake before that.”

 

Laying down, Thorin tried not to peer towards the open door into the mountain. He would have to be patient, much as he wanted to go and scout the dragon’s lair himself. He closed his eyes, willing himself to relax, to sleep. The dreams came, like a whisper carrying him to the deeps of the mountain.

_The funeral was a splendid one, albeit less traditional than could be expected. Thrór was laid to rest in the deeps, in a crypt of his own. The dark stone tomb may seem simple now, but in weeks to come the finest artists of Erebor would come here and transform the entire crypt into one monument to their demised king and Thorin was determined to see this crypt as one of the most splendid amongst all the kingly tombs._

_Tradition had also been followed in regards of the pyre. Everything in Thorin’s entire being  had screamed for them not to do this, to simply decree there would be no pyre, no one to follow Thrór into the next life. But he could not do this, his people would not understand, no one would accept it. And so the pyre had been prepared, a huge stone ring holding the great blazing flame to the left of the King’s grave. It had taken all his strength of will for Thorin to watch Daroin approach it. The Captain of the Guard wore his armor, along with the dark blue cloak, his hair was unbraided, falling open around his shoulders, signifying all ties severed, all goodbyes said. He wore nor arms, except for his sword, the very blade he had received when being raised to his task. It was the only weapon tradition permitted, the only mercy in this cruel departure._

_Daroin was permitted to use that blade on himself; he did not have to wait for the fire to kill him. But when he approached the pyre, step steady, no hesitation or glances for those who watched, Thorin’s heart clenched, he wanted to stop this, but was powerless all the same. Daroin stepped into the fire, the flame engulfing him at once, the dwarven affinity to fire making this even harder than it had to be. He stood, a beautiful and horrible figure engulfed by flame, his body entirely eaten up by the fire, for a moment Thorin thought the warrior would become a figure of flame, as the fires took him. There were no screams from Daroin, no signs of pain, he went the way a Captain of the Guard should, following his king gladly and willingly._

_Glancing to the side, Thorin looked for Dwalin who’s eyes were fixed on the pyre, what did his friend feel now, as he watched his brother walk to an unnecessary death? The fires burned out and there would be no body, only ashes. The ash would be gathered and buried at the feet of the King’s tomb. Thorin followed his grandfather wishes in not having many speeches at the funeral. He had not invited anyone to share it either, no emissaries from the Iron Hills, no poor relations from the Ered Luin, the King under the Mountain was buried by his people and his people alone. All of Erebor had come to watch and when Thorin spoke to them it did not need many words, they knew their loss. Thrór’s reign had not been one of peace but certainly one of plenty, the Mountain had become wealthy under his rule. He had been a beloved King._

_When the ceremonies were over, Thorin was approached by the seven councilors, which was also part of tradition. He now was to be led through the Mountain and the palace to see the legacy his grandfather had passed on to him. Most of what he was led through he knew of course, but he kept to the forms, asking each of the councilors at least five different questions, listening to their answers earnestly. At least Balin was there, that made things much easier. When they reached the treasury, Thorin could not help but stare, he knew parts of this as well, but he had not been aware how much the old treasury had been expanded, how many riches had been amassed. “I was not aware the treasury had been expanded,” he said to Narvi, the Treasurer._

_“We ran out of room years ago already, your Highness,” Narvi explained. “King Thrór had us expand the treasury but four years ago we were again at the limit. So we dug all the caverns below and to the sides. An extra chamber was created for all the raw jewels, to be stored on barrel. Much more efficient but of course not half as nice to look at.”_

_Thorin had to agree, this hoard was immense, more than even he had known. If anyone ever learned how many riches were stored under this Mountain, Erebor would come under siege from armies of men and other dwarves quickly. The dragon had been a warning already. They would have to keep the extent of the hoard secret._

_“The Master of the Pit reported this morning that they found a lode,” Vragi spoke up. “I told him that I would pass it on to you of course. He says looks like a gold lode again, but thinks there might be a possibility it could be mithrál.” He spoke in a hush of the latter. It was of course known that true Mithril was only found in Moria, and the dwarves new that the process that had caused Mithril to come into existence was a rare one. It took a volcano to rise under an ancient age old mountain, the hot lava pressing into rock, melting and changing the old stone. Once it cooled, millennia later, the material would be rich and diverse. And if there had been the right things, the right materials involved and pressure high enough, Mithril might be found. Mithrál was a close relation to the material, a rare and strange gold. It had been found in Moria only in the scarcest quantities, but Thrór had always said Erebor may be the right type of ancient fire mount to look for it._

_Thrór would have gone himself to meet Uldur, the Master of the Pit, First of the Miners, he had always taken interest in the underground works and listened to his miners. “I shall meet him tomorrow,” Thorin said. “Tell him to be at Faldir’s Crossing at first rise, I wish to see the new find myself.” Thorin was no miner, but he would continue his grandfather’s example. And the treasure under the mountain would grow._

ADL

 

Bilbo slipped the ring on once he was inside the tunnel, he had chosen the wee hours of the morning for his first foray into the mountain. To imagine that he would actually have come to finding things that were important enough to forgo breakfast. He smiled; adventures obviously did not only make you late for dinner. Not that he could have touched a bite this morning anyway. He peered back to the door, knowing Kili and Thorin were both close, ready to come for him should anything go awry. He did not intend to call for them, but knowing they were there, knowing they would come for him without any hesitation made him feel warm, he had never felt so keenly what it meant to know that your friends had your back.

 

He tiptoed down the long hallway and into the mountain, it was not as dark as he had expected, the dwarves had made use of long shafts to allow natural light into their halls, enhanced and spread through crystals the light illuminated the vast halls and wide reaches of the dwarven realm. The first time Bilbo stepped out of a tunnel and into a hall he had to catch his breath, this fortress city was so beautiful, he had never believed that any place hewn into the rock could be so gorgeous. How many generations had labored to craft these halls?

 

He found a stairwell leading down from his vantage point and towards the main halls. Carefully he advanced down and along the side of the hall, following the descriptions Thorin had given him he headed towards the main gate first. For there he would find a way up to the heart of the city. The silence of the mountain was eerie, like a dark, heavy sleep had fallen on the lost kingdom of Erebor.

 

The closer he came to the passage of the main gate, the harder it became to walk noiselessly, because there were more and more armored skeletons littering the ground. The dwarven army had tried to fight the dragon, and the beast had left their armor and bones lie, Bilbo tried not to look at the torn remains, knowing that many had been spat out by the dragon after he chewed off their flesh. He was grateful when he discovered a narrow tunnel that lead in the right direction and allowed him to avoid the hall of the main gate. He followed the stairs up and found himself standing on a narrow ledge high above the gate hall. Beside him were five gigantic levers of steel, the ropes holding them up had been cut, swinging frayed and rotten from above. Bilbo nearly jumped off the ledge when he believed to having seen someone sitting beside the levers.

 

On a second glance he recognized that it was another skeleton, one untouched by the dragon. The body was long gone, but the armor sat still upright against the wall, a mighty black battleaxe on his knees. Bilbo choked, realizing that dwarf had died sitting as he was now. Had he been the one to hack away the ropes? Or had he simply realised that the gate was shut and resigned himself to dying here? Who had he been? Had he had family?

 

Bilbo put his hand over his mouth, he must not let this get to him, he had to go on and find out about the dragon. Still, he could not resist touching the heavy gauntlet of the dead dwarf. “Your people are coming home,” he said softly. “Your King is returning.” He did not know why, but he wanted the dead warrior to know it had not been in vain.

 

“I can hear you sneak around dwarves…” A deep voice echoed through the halls. “Are you finally daring to come down here instead of scurrying about like rats in rafters?”

 

The Halfling nearly froze, had the dragon just spoken? Had he heard him? He hurried along the ledge and deeper into the mountain, whence the voice had come.

 

“Cowards…” the voice continued. “Hiding in the dark, I can smell you dwarves, did the Ice get too cold for you?”

 

Bilbo wondered what the dragon was talking about. Could he have gone mad in the long time alone in these halls? Or did he try to lure him out? Remembering the warning not to speak, he moved ahead, towards the voice, careful to not make any noise. It was getting harder again because of the gold lying in the main halls. There were coins and goblets strewn along the ways and piling up all around the great halls. How much gold could one hoard hold, Bilbo wondered. He had known the dwarven treasure must have been considerable but this… this was ridiculous.

 

A movement caught his eye and he hid behind one of the large pillars, peering into the throne hall. The first he saw was a wing, raised to not collide with the pillars, and a huge paw tromping the ground by a large door. The dragon! Awed Bilbo watched the huge golden wyrm glide into the hall, he must be patrolling the mountain searching for the dwarves he had smelt. He was huge, gold encrusting his skin, pressed into his scales from the long time he had lain in the it. But there was also a huge scar on his chest and throat, an exceedingly long, if healed, gash that was not scaled nor covered by gold. The scar was thick and roped, the wound must have nearly reached the heart, Bilbo thought, awed. Had one of the dwarves gotten so close? No… Thorin had said he never had a chance to land a decent hit against the beast and he had been in the front rank of that fight.

 

“I can hear you breathe… what are you?” The dragon whispered. “Are you one of my crazed children coming crawling to me? Do you feel my blood burn in your veins?”

 

He had to be crazy, Bilbo concluded, there was no other reasonable explanation. None at all. Rolling in so much gold could not be healthy for anyone’s mind. Careful to avoid the dragon’s path Bilbo moved through the throne hall, seeing the former throne piled with treasures, many of them the ornate and valuable armor of dead dwarves, more than a few skulls rested there as well. And on the throne itself… Bilbo could see a sparkling jewel shine softly. Before throne he saw several dead in armor, like they had been placed there… the dragon had made a gruesome display of his victory. Bilbo felt sick, how could this beast do this? Even to those who had fallen defending their home?

 

“You are not him… you smell wrong…” The dragon went on, his dark bronze voice was mellifluous and Bilbo found he liked hearing him speak. “And you are not the dwarf I smelled before. Did you come to find Smaug the Magnificent?”

 

The dragon had smelled him, Bilbo realized, panic rising inside him. He had to get away before the dragon found him. He dashed across the room and towards the other stairwell that would lead him back towards the escape tunnel. Thorin had told him how he could reach it again from the inside. Still, when he raced across the coins on the floor, his own sounds made the dragon aware of where he was and a puff of flame shot searing after him. Bilbo jumped ahead, the fire missed him and he reached the ledge Thorin had described, jumping for the balcony below, where he had originally entered the mountain. He landed hard and heard the dragon roar behind him, the beast was diving into the chasm! He ran into the tunnel leading outside, he knew it was too small for the dragon to enter or even peer into it. He removed the ring as he ran towards the way out.

 

Behind him the dragon’s voice rose into a shout he could not understand and he felt the wind the wings whirled up in the chasm he had just jumped across. Heat… searing, burning heat came behind him, the dragon may not be able to look into the tunnel but he could fill it with fire. Bilbo ran faster, towards the light but the heat caught up with him too quickly. He peered over his shoulder and saw the lance of flame shooting towards him.

 

Suddenly a hard hand grabbed his shoulder and he was pulled into a niche in the wall, his body crushed against the stone, shielded by someone taller than himself. The fire soared past them and finally died. Coughing Bilbo turned around once he was released, to find himself face to face with Thorin. The dwarven king pointed towards the door that was only fifty paces away and they hurried to get out of the scorched tunnel.

 

Outside, in the light of a bright autumn day Bilbo’s hands began to shake. “Thank you…” he stumbled over the words. “You saved my life…”

 

To his surprise Thorin clapped his shoulder. “You would have done the same for me.” He replied.

 

“So much for the question what became of the ‘Smaug the Terrible’,” Bofur said, sniffing the tunnel entrance. “still hot and unsociable, with a peppery disposition.”

 

“Get away from the door,” Bilbo said sharply. “He smelled dwarves in these… but nothing he was saying made much sense. Can dragons go mad when they are alone too long?”

 

“Dragons are always alone,” Thorin said, leading Bilbo to their camp, so he could sit down. “You said he spoke?”

 

“Yes, he said he smelled dwarves and asked them if they had come down from somewhere… scurrying like rats in rafters he called it and he asked if the Ice had gotten too cold for them. It didn’t make a lot of sense.”

 

Bilbo had never seen such a smile rise on Thorin’s face. “The Reach,” the dwarven leader said awed. “Dari said that his people had survived in the Ice… They are truly there.”

 

“If this is true, then they have been stuck on the mountain since the dragon came,” Balin said sagely. “Bringing down the siege doors would have collapsed the stairs of the sky and cut off their only surface route down. And Smaug is aware of them, who knows what he did to them?”

 

The siege doors, Bilbo shuddered, recalling the dead warrior beside the levers and the many dead all around. “The mountain… it’s gruesome, Thorin,” he whispered. “Your dead… he ate them, spitting their bones and armor all over the place, if he did not place them around the throne as a monument to his victory…”

 

A heavy hand grabbed Bilbo’s shoulders. “We knew that, laddie,” Dwalin said gruffly. “They are dead and Mahal will remake their forms better and stronger than before, the bodies they left behind were but clay forms to be broken.”

 

Surprised Bilbo looked at the bald warrior. Poetry out of Dwalin? What would be next? “So… the dragon was not mad when he spoke of the dwarves in the ice. I wonder if he was as truthful about his children then too.”

 

“Children?! Did he breed?” Glóin exclaimed. “That wyrm had the audacity to procreate in our halls?”

 

“If he did then Smaug is no he at all,” Kili said calmly. “Legend has it that female dragons find themselves a hoard when their time comes to hatch eggs.” He managed to actually smile at Thorin. “We got our ass handed to us by a girl.”

 

Thorin shot him a half-hearted glare. “If this is true, we need to search the mountain top to bottom once Smaug is dealt with.” He said. “Dragon eggs are dangerous… but their gold is legendary as well.”

 

“Which brings us back to Smaug,” Kili said quickly, turning to Bilbo. “Did you see him?”

 

“I did and got nearly roasted,” Bilbo replied. “Thorin, the day you fought him, did you by chance manage to land a hit? He has a long scar going from his throat across his chest.”

 

“No,” Thorin replied honestly. His only serious hit had been lower and not done much. He frowned, recalling the dreams… he had done something like that in his dreams. What was happening here? “I never landed any meaningful attack. But maybe Smaug injured himself at one of the traps inside the mountain?”

 

“Possibly,” Bilbo said, continuing to describe Smaug’s exact shape and all he had seen. Kili kept asking more and more questions until Bilbo ran out of answers.

 

“I think that seals it,” the dwarven prince stated in the end. “Fighting him inside is not going to work. His fire has too great a reach and I will never get a clear line of sight for shooting him.”

 

“If we do that, we risk the dragon striking at the long lake, or even Mirkwood,” Boromir pointed out. “Once he is airborn we do not have any chance of stopping his attacks on others.”

 

“Not if we can make him come for us,” Thorin said thoughtfully. “He already smelled dwarves that could help us. Maybe if I were to lure him out…”

 

“Contrary to one Orc we both know and hate, Smaug does not give an Orc’s droppings about Durin’s Line, father,” Kili pointed out. “You could go in there and shout your name and he would only smell dinner. No… we have to do this smartly.”

 

“You warned me not to steal from him,” Bilbo spoke up. “What if… what would happen if I did? Would that bring him to us?”

 

“Most likely, especially if he can see us…” Boromir looked at the Halfling, a sudden idea coming to the warrior. “Bilbo – we would need a bright and shiny object from the hoard, something that shines in the darkness. And we need it two hours before sundown.”

 

“Do we?” Kili asked, not quite following.

 

“If the dragon can truly sense theft from the hoard, he will be vexed and with a little luck fly up.” Boromir explained. “If it is evening, and the object is shining bright he will spot it. We take position in the ruins of Dale, and all we need to do is making sure the dragon knows where the treasure is.”

 

“And he will have to dive down on us…” Kili whispered. “It is our best chance.”

 

“I… I think I know what I could get,” Bilbo said, in spite of being still frightened by his first stint down below. “only… it is in throne hall.” He drew a slow breath, trying not to shake at the idea of going down there again.

 

“Vexed as the dragon was…” Kili said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should wait a day or two, give you a chance to recover. Maybe the dragon will take a nap.”

 

Bilbo could see that Kili was saying this for his sake; his friend could see he was scared. He pulled it together. “No, Kili,” he said. “Who knows what the dragon gets up to once he has time to think. He is startled now, and if he finds a theft has happened he will be all the more enraged. He won’t act sanely… we have the momentum, we mustn’t lose it.”

 

“Gandalf was right – there is a lot more about you than meets the eye,” Kili said with honest respect.

 

Bilbo shrugged. “I am not the one who will have to actually kill the beast,” he pointed out. “Are you sure… are you sure you can face that?” He saw Kili’s grim nod, but was not sure how much of this was a brave façade Kili put on for the other’s sake.

 

Bilbo got to his feet. “I will sneak back in, it is a few hours until afternoon, but I may need more time to get to throne hall again.”

 

Thorin rose as well. “I will be near the door, Bilbo. If necessary we will come for you and fight inside the mountain.”

 

ADL

 

Kili had saddled Dawnrunner, checking his bow a second time. The quiver with the black arrows was at his side, two more arrow packs strapped to the saddle. “Kili, come here,” he heard Thorin’s soft call. His father was still by the door, ready to go to Bilbo’s aid if necessary. The younger dwarf hurried over to him, their eyes meeting. “I do not like you going without me,” Thorin stated. “I should be there.”

 

They had been over this before, but Thorin still disliked the situation. “Father,” Kili said, knowing that his use of the word usually calmed Thorin. “If we fail… if I fail… we will need someone to think of another plan. I don’t want to go down in history as the dwarf who unleashed Smaug on the world again. If that happens… you are our only chance to destroy the beast.”

 

Thorin sighed, still tense and unhappy, “I should be the one to take this risk.” He insisted. All the more he hated the seal of the dragonsbane that had put Kili into the path of danger.

 

“You are our King,” Kili said firmly. “This is the one risk you must not take. Not when chances of failure are so high. You and Fili… you are our backup plan.” He knew that leaving his brother with Thorin would work, it always did. If Thorin had to choose between them he would always choose Fili, and Kili was fine with that, because he would make the very same choice. “Boromir will be with me, to cover my back.”

 

“So will I, laddie.” Dwalin grumbled from behind him.

 

Surprised Kili turned to see the bald warrior stand behind him. “But… Thorin is going to need you, Dwalin.”

 

“We already talked about that and he agrees that you will need me more.” Dwalin told him, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest.

 

“You take him with you, or me,” Thorin told Kili. “Take it or leave it.”

 

Kili nodded. “Very well then, Dwalin, have your horse ready as well, once Bilbo comes out, we race for the ruins of Dale. That’s where we will make our stand.”

 

“The ruins… will force him to come down close. Good plan.” Dwalin said. “My horse is already there.” Boromir joined them; he too was ready to go.

 

Thorin looked at Kili, standing before him, ready to go to battle. Beside him stood Dwalin… his old friend, comrade of so many fights and friend of even more years, and Boromir.  He knew he must not look at Kili as his son in this moment, nor as the boy he wanted to protect or at Dwalin as the friend he would give his life for, now they were soldiers, he had to send to battle. Still, the words he was expected to say burned in his throat. He heard a soft footfall in the tunnel and knew time was running out. He wished the dragon would pay attention again, forcing him to race to Bilbo so he would not have to say it… but this time Smaug had not spotted the Hobbit.

 

“Fight fierce and stand strong, may your blades draw blood and your arrows rain death upon your foes. May your death bring victory. Die proud.” Thorin had never found it harder to say the ancient battle blessing.

 

Bilbo exited the tunnel, unaware of what just had transpired. He carried a shining jewel in his hands, panting from running hard. “There it is, Kili, you better hurry, I had to ruin the dragon’s monument.”

 

“The Arkenstone…” Thorin could not believe it but… what better way to dare the dragon?

 

Kili took the stone. “Good work, Bilbo, look out for the others.” He said with a smile for the Halfling, before the three hurried to their horses.

 

ADL

 

They reached the ruins of Dale with the sinking sun and let their horses run free; it would spare the animals a gruesome death in the dragon’s fire. “Kili, put the jewel on that statue there,” Boromir pointed at a broken figurine in a narrow square. “If he wants to grab it, he will have fly low.”

 

The young dwarf followed the instruction. Dwalin and Boromir were quick to assess the field and he knew better than to contradict them, the two lifelong warriors worked together like they had always done so. “Lad, try to scale that broken wall, it should give you a better position.” Dwalin pointed him to the spot.

 

A roar ripped through the evening skies, one angry dark voice rising from the mountain, there was no doubt that Smaug had discovered the theft. Quickly Kili climbed the wall, finding a good position behind a shattered battlement. The darkening northern horizon was filled by Erebor’s glistening peak until… until a shadow rose above the mountain, a shadow on mighty wings. Fear rose inside Kili when he saw the beast. How could he even think of defeating that thing? The first gust of wind, whirled up by the mighty wings hit him and he steadied himself against the wall.

 

_No fate, nor destiny charts the path of us, but the storm will find us and we must ride it. It will either carry us to the heights or plunge us into a pit. If you don’t dare the storm, you are not of Durin’s blood._

He remembered the words; Thorin usually had added that those who were not fighting for themselves were no dwarves but garbage. Kili grabbed the bow more firmly, this was the storm, and the raven would have to fly with it, or die in the fire.

 

The dragon dove down on them, his angry voice echoing above the ruins. Kili could see the gold encrusted chest and the scar. He bent this bow, the arrow flew but was knocked out of the way by the storm of the mighty wings. A lance of fire shot down at him and he ducked behind the scorched stones.

 

Smaug had seen the Arkenstone, his second dive was preceded by another lance of fire but this time his mighty claws found hold on two broken buildings, the dragon perching on the ruins. Kili saw the tail swing around and jumped just in time to evade the hit. The horny tail smashed the wall, splinters raining everywhere. Kili scrambled to his feet, trying to find another shooting position.

 

Down in the broken yard he saw Dwalin storm at the dragon, bringing his hammer down on the claw perched on a wall. The hammer may not be able to break through the scales but it must have hurt some bones below, because Smaug screamed angrily and kicked the dwarf through the air, before his tail made impact with a sword. Boromir had hacked into the dragon’s less well armored tail and injured him. Now the Gondorian raced around the statue, evading Smaug’s fangs.

 

Kili saw what Boromir was doing, he was making the dragon turn. Hastily he climbed up on the damaged wall again, understanding what his friend was doing. When the dragon came about Dwalin’s hammer again found his claws and the dragon roared, throwing his head back. Kili fired two arrows at the scar, both hit true, injuring the dragon’s neck, blood was beginning to run from the wounds, but all it did was make Smaug even more furious. In his rampage he smashed several buildings; Kili lost his stand and landed hard on a pile of rubble.

 

Getting up he saw the dragon’s head hover above Dwalin, the jaws open, ready to eat the dwarf. “Oh no, you don’t.” Kili bend his bow with all his strength and fired one arrow at the large eye of the dragon. The black feathered shaft hissed through the air and impaled the glowing orange orb.

 

A shudder went through the dragon’s body, the entire length of the beast shaking before he collapsed, the massive corpse smashing into the ruins. The paws clawed at the grounds for a moment before the dragon stilled and the end came.

 

“Dwalin!” Kili raced across the yard, jumping over one of the dragon’s claws to reach the older warrior. “Are you all right?”

 

The bald fighter sat up. “I am well, Kili…” he was pale, but relieved. Wordlessly he pulled Kili into a hug. “That was damn close.”

 

“And he did not even have sage to ingest dwarf.” Boromir had pushed away the stones that had landed on him and joined them. The joke broke the tension and all three laughed. Before them still and lifeless lay the body of the greatest calamity of this age, finally fallen and above them rose the first full winter moon. The first day after Durin’s Day, the first proper day of the new dwarven year had seen the end of Smaug’s reign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D


	22. Dreams of Gold

The fire burned high, a bright flame into the night, and the smell of roasted goat hung deliciously in the air. There was no ale, but that did not diminish the dwarves’ joyous mood in the least. Glóin had even tried his hand on an impromptu dragonslayer ballad and all of the company had been glad when Kili had put an end to that, by asking him for some old battle song instead. That had been the start of the singing; the dwarves had a seemingly inexhaustible repertoire of songs, ballads and old battle songs. Bilbo sat on a rock, pleasantly full with roasted goat and enjoyed the many songs. He was glad that he was not at the center of the attention any more, at first Kili and Dwalin had dragged him into the circle with them because he had been the one to recover the Arkenstone, and he had felt all embarrassed between them. He had been relieved when he had managed to slip away a little, much more happy to watch the three fighters being celebrated.

 

Someone sat down beside him as the last notes of the Ballad of Alberic Stonebow rang out into the night, he looked up and recognized a familiar hat. “Bofur, I would have thought no one could get you away from the singing.”

 

The miner grinned at Bilbo. “I just wanted to have a quiet moment, much like you, Bilbo.” He said. “To let it all sink in.”

 

The Hobbit tilted his head to see Bofur’s face. “It will take some time to get used to it, I think,” he said. “Having a real home, I mean… you did it, Bofur. You got your home back.”

 

“That too,” Bofur said softly, his eyes going to the fire, to Kili, who was standing with his brother and Thorin at that moment, dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. So much like his father, and so much not like him. Fili, hugging his brother, his other hand reaching for Thorin’s shoulder, including him into the moment of closeness, the golden light between the two darker ones.

 

“You seem pensive,” Bilbo observed. “What else is it you need to get used to? Other than settling down, obviously.”

 

“Being here,” Bofur replied, not quite aware he was speaking to Bilbo. “Being here, Bilbo, being part of this…”

 

“But, you were part of the company from the start,” Bilbo pointed out. “Like all the others, like Dwalin and Glóin…”

 

Bofur shook his head. “Not quite. I am not of Durin’s folk, my brother, cousin and I are Blacklock dwarves, born in the Northern Misty Mountains. We fell in with the Erebor dwarves when they crossed Dunland so long ago; they were wandering as were we… they were the first to accept us, in spite of Bifur’s injury. Blacklocks don’t have much of a good reputation, you know.”

 

“But they accepted you still, didn’t they?” Bilbo asked. “They have never treated you differently throughout the whole journey.”

 

“Aye,” Bofur smiled lightly. “That’s exactly that, Bilbo – they were the first to accept us three, to take us along like we were of Durin’s folk as well, even as we were of Var’s folk. When Thorin called for the quest and I went to join… I did not expect him to accept us, but he welcomed us as much as any of the others.” There was an echo of awe in the miner’s voice. “Sometimes on that long journey you just forget by whose side you walk.”

 

“A King you mean?” Bilbo tried to decipher what Bofur was saying.

 

“That too…” Bofur shook his head. “They travel with us, share the hardships, the dangers, always in the front rank, always taking the risks, and still… they just behave like they were the same as us. And then… you see them do something that should be impossible, come back from being stabbed, fight a dragon… and you suddenly realize that this is Durin’s Blood you walk beside.”

 

“Bofur, Bilbo,” Kili had left the fire to find them. “Are you all right? You seem so withdrawn…” The dark eyes surveyed them both, warm and concerned. “I have already been telling Óin and Glóin not to overdo it so much… we all did it together, constantly praising the three of us is unfair on all the others, you shouldered the same dangers and hardships.”

 

He meant every word, and Bilbo saw how much they affected Bofur, who already admired Kili’s family so much. “No, my Prince,” the miner replied. “They ought to praise you three…”

 

“Mahal’s hammer, Bofur!” Kili exclaimed. “You won’t go all that formal on me. We all came through too much for that, we are friends, so no more titles.” He actually grabbed Bofur’s arm, leading him back to the celebrations.

 

ADL

 

Thorin woke the next morning well after sunrise, he had been too exhausted to even dream in that night and was surprised he had slept so long. Sleeping beyond sunrise was a luxury he had rarely had in years. The last night had been a wonderful celebration, He had been impatient sometimes, but held back and let the three enjoy that evening and the honest happiness of their comrades, they deserved it. Sometime during the night Fili had sat down beside Thorin, content to watch his brother from afar as he laughed with the others. His company had meant much to Thorin as the night wore on.

 

Now that the sun was high in the skies, the dwarven leader determined it was time to enter the mountain; the others had already begun to pack up camp. “Kili,” he approached his son, who had been exchanging jokes with Glóin, laughing at some peppery comment by the redhead, dismissing him with a gesture.

 

“Thorin?” Kili turned to him.

 

“Did you recover the Arkenstone when you returned from the ruins?” Thorin asked, trying not to sound impatient. He had been about to ask for the stone a dozen times the last night, but he had held his tongue every time.

 

“Oh, that thing.” Kili fished the stone from the pocket of his coat and dropped it into Thorin’s hand without ceremony. “It got a bit dirty when Smaug had to drool on it.”

 

“You should show a little more respect, Kili,” Thorin reminded him. “This is the King’s jewel; it is the heart of the Mountain, the crown jewel of…”

 

“It is a pretty important jewel then,” Kili said lightheartedly. “And outside from luring dragons into traps still useless. It is powerful but the way it was cut is… ornate only.” He pointed to the bloody bundle he had brought back from the battlefield. “That’s what I call treasure.” He pulled the leathers of the pack aside to allow Thorin a peek on four glistening white fangs and several huge dark claws.

 

He had brought back the fangs and claws of Smaug, it was a spellsmith’s ransom, Thorin would admit, but he would never trade these bloody things for the Arkenstone, no matter what power they held. Still, he was proud of Kili, he would rekindle the fame of Durin’s house as great arcane crafters and once he would see what he could do when he was not limited to working with steel he would appreciate the treasure more. “I will be very curious what you make of those,” Thorin said. “Just see they are cleaned properly before they begin to stink.”

 

Walking down the long tunnel into the mountain Thorin was glad to have Dwalin by his side again, his friend would remember just like he did what it had been like to walk through these halls. They had finally come home. They followed the same path Bilbo had taken, towards the main gate at first, because it would be the best way to access the heart of the city. Thorin’s heart clenched when they came to the gate with the many dead, the remains lying everywhere. How many had fallen that day? He knew the estimated headcount from Balin, but the brutal number had never felt more real than in this moment as he stood among the remains of all those the dragon had killed and eaten. “When… when the mountain is properly secured we will place their remains in a large crypt in the deeps,” Thorin said, his voice rough. “They will always rest near the heart of their homeland.”

 

“The siege doors are down proper, they were brought down in the right sequence,” Dwalin studied the heavy stone barrier. “Small wonder the dragon did not get out this way.”

 

“I found the body of a warrior up on the ledge,” Bilbo told him. “I think he is the one who did it. The dragon did not find his… remains.”

 

Dwalin looked at the Halfling with a strange expression. “Show me,” he said curtly, gesturing for Balin to join with them.

 

Bilbo led them up the narrow stairwell and to the ledge with the levers. Nothing had changed since he had been up here, the warrior still sat in his place, the black axe on his knees. “I had thought of bringing the axe out with me,” Bilbo admitted. “But you said to not take anything, and I doubt I could have even carried it.”

 

“You did right, laddie. The weapon should be buried with Daroin.” Balin said, having climbed the stairs after them. Both brothers stood silently beside the dead warrior.

 

“Daroin… he is your brother?!” Suddenly Bilbo understood the sad expression in both their eyes, they had not just lost their brother the day the mountain fell, he had sacrificed himself to allow the others to flee by staying behind and closing the siege doors. “I am so sorry,” Bilbo felt he could not find words to express his sympathies for the two brothers, what must it be for them to come back here and find their brother in the place he had died in all alone?

 

“It is all right, Bilbo,” Balin told him gently. “Daroin died fulfilling his duty to his king; to his people… he died proudly.”

 

“I can’t even begin to imagine how this must feel for you…” Bilbo whispered, remembering Thorin telling him how Daroin had tracked him and Dwalin down out on the hillside bringing Thorin back to his grandfather like an unruly whelp. It conjured the image of a tall dwarven warrior like Dwalin in Bilbo’s mind, but with some of Balin’s kinder face.

 

“Daroin’s and Dwalin’s lives were given to their respective Kings, little one,” Balin replied. “Had Daroin lived he would be buried by King Thrór’s side at the shores of Mirrormere. To bemoan such a fate is to belittle their choices.”

 

“Dwalin…” Thorin had come up the stairs, but seeing them stand there, he cut back on what he had wanted to say. He too recognized the dead fighter. “Take all the time you need,” he said, ready to leave again.

 

Dwalin had moved from his spot already to join Thorin, but the dwarven King turned around to clasp his upper arm. “Take all the time you need, my friend,” Thorin repeated softly. “We will see him buried as he should have been, later.”

 

But Dwalin shook his head. “There is no time needed, Thorin, I said my goodbyes long ago. Daroin is with Mahal, and he’d have my hide if he found me tarrying on my own duty.”

 

To his surprise Thorin looked down, the long tresses of his hair obscuring his face. “Oh Dwalin,” Thorin whispered. “Your family gave so much, Daroin, the rest of your family, Marthaswintha…” He looked up again, intense blue eyes meeting Dwalin’s darker gaze. “Stay, if not for Daroin, for Balin’s sake. Your family deserves at least this little consideration.” The dwarf king gave Dwalin a quick nod and went down the stairs again, leaving the warrior and his brother to mourn their fallen sibling.

 

ADL

 

Thorin walked through the great throne hall of Erebor alone, how long had it been that he had been standing here? Could it really be all that long lifetime ago? Now that he was here, the years wandering the world seemed like a bad dream, a nightmare, or a story someone had told him by the firelight during a hunting trip. Now that he walked the gold-strewn halls of the mountain Thorin felt he had truly come home. This was his place…

 

As he walked he noticed the amount of treasure piled up throughout the halls. He had been acquainted with the wealth of the mountain but this was more than he remembered. Could his dream have been true? That the treasure under the mountain was much larger than he had ever known? Without thinking his feet carried him to the main treasury, the door was still open like the day he had rescued his grandfather from that room, but several more doors had been smashed by the dragon and the overflowing riches of the mountain flowed through the rooms.

 

Reverently Thorin knelt and touched the gold with his fingerstips, feeling a seeping warmth spread through him.

 

_“Well done, my boy.” Thrór stood a few paces away, smiling at him. Thorin blinked in surprise, was he dreaming again? It could not be, he was still in the treasury._

_“No, you are not dreaming.” Thrór actually laughed. “Do not fear… you are home and you will not allow anyone to steal from us again.”_

Thorin rubbed his eyes, as he looked around the room, piled with gold. Maybe he had been dreaming, but this… this was his grandfather’s legacy to him, the greatest treasure in all Middle Earth.

 

“Thorin!” He heard Bofur’s voice call out for him. Hastily he got up and hurried out to the hallway again. “What is it, Bofur, is something amiss?” He asked.

 

“Bifur called me, Thorin. He is out with hour horses still and he reported a rider approaching the mountain. Alone, it seems.”

 

Thorin tensed, there always would be thieves wanting to steal the gold, to loot the treasure under the Mountain. “I will go up to him and see who the rider is,” he decided. “Find Dwalin and tell him to prepare for trouble.”

 

Having hastened up the long tunnel to the secret door, Thorin’s breath was flying when he arrived at their former camp. He did not need to converse with Bifur to see what the other dwarf had called him for. The rider was close enough to be recognizable already. Lachanar. A small part of Thorin was glad that the former Captain General of Mirkwood had survived, he had after all stood by Thorin and aided in his escape, but that did not make up for his betrayal of their friendship in the first place. “What brings you here, Lachanar? If your king has messages for me, you can take them right back to him.” He grumbled.

 

“He is no longer my King, or you can consider me an oathbreaker, whatever suits you better.” Lachanar dismounted his tired horse. “I came to warn you, Thorin. Thranduil blames you not only for the death of the guards in the palace but also for the death of his tree… he is mobilizing the army. By the time I had left they were calling up the full host. He wants revenge and he will come here.”

 

Thorin frowned, he was not sure what he should think, Lachanar’s newfound allegiance to him came at the price of breaking his oath which made him even less trustworthy. On the other hand, the warning came handy, and Lachanar would know a lot about the enemy’s strength and disposition. But he still could not be trusted. “So you came to warn me,” Thorin drawled. “And I will need to know more soon. But I cannot trust you, Lachanar. Not with the legacy of my people freshly reclaimed. Bifur! Escort him down to the mountain and put him into a cell, we will need to learn all he knows.”

 

ADL

 

Another flock of geese strayed across the cold skies and Bard’s eyes mapped their path. They too flew close to the mountain. It was the third flight of them the archer had watched and he began to wonder. During the previous night he had seen fiery light rise from afar, it had shone from the heights of Dale during the evening to go out, with a fierce crash that had shaken the grounds of the land. The Earth itself hat trembled. Ever since the Captain of the Town Guard had been watching the signs, wondering what had transpired. Maybe once the Elves who had shown up on their doorstep had left he would ride North to ascertain what had happened.

 

“Bard!” Egil came rushing towards him. “The Master has sent for you.”

 

“If he now wants my advice on how to deal with Elves, I have no idea.” Bard said, striding towards the town hall.

 

“I don’t think so,” Egil said ominously. “He is in there with several Elves already. He might want to remind them that we have an army too… better to bring the fierce Captain into those negotiations.”

 

It was very possible. Bard had often slightly tipped the balance of negotiations through his presence; many people believed the army of Esgaroth much stronger and fiercer than it usually was. Bard straightened up, striding into the hall, purposefully pushing past the guards. “Master, you called for me.” He spoke clearly, putting the warrior, the Captain into the foreground of his being.

 

The Master sat on his chair, with only a few councilors present, to his side stood several elves, with whom he had been conversing. “Bard, it is good you came so quickly,” the Master greeted, then turning to the Elf. “Your Highness this is Bard of Dale, the Captain of our warriors.”

 

Bard realized that the pale elf standing between the warriors must be their King, he bowed as was proper, but his eyes did not leave the Master. The old man returned his attention quickly to him. “Bard, I need you to muster all our fighters, every warrior we have and maybe a few volunteers that are willing.”

 

Bard frowned. “For what reason?” he asked. “The scouts have not reported anything unduly restless in Wilderland and the rumors of Orcs crossing the wilds have yet to be confirmed.”

 

“We will march on Erebor with the Elves, Bard.” The Master exclaimed. “And we will need any fighter we can contribute for this. These Dwarves… they will be dealt with.”

 

So the Elves and the Master too assumed the Dragon was dead and that the Mountain was ripe for the taking. Bard’s heart sank, knowing that the Master always had loved money much and the hoard of the Mountain was legendary. “Master, why would we betray King Thorin and his people?” he asked. “They have done us no harm; they were our allies in the past.”

 

“This self –styled King is not worthy of our consideration,” the Master snapped. “And it is not your place to question, Bard. I have made my decision.”

 

“Master of Lake-Town,” The Elf King’s musical voice interrupted the man’s rant. “Your Captain is an honorable man, and raises reasonable questions that speak much in his favor. Would you allow me to speak to him?”

 

The Master heaved a sigh. “Very well, your Highness. But do not overtax yourself…”

 

The Elf shot him a glance that told quite clearly that he did not wish such intrusions on his personal matters, before Thranduil turned to Bard. “Walk with me,” he invited the Captain. Bard had no choice but to follow the Elf outside. “I know this must seem rude to you,” The elven king continued as they walked towards the waterside. “But I feel much better to speak out in the open. And I wish to apologize for putting you into such a situation. I had hoped to explain before you were ordered to marshal your army.”

 

Bard inclined his head politely. “That was hardly your fault, your Highness.” He replied. “But I still stand by what I said. King Thorin and his people have done us no harm and were great allies in the past. Turning on them would be wrong.”

 

They had reached the waterside and stood alone on the pier overlooking the lake. “Your family was close to King Thrór’s I recall,” Thranduil said. “And you believe Thorin to be like his noble ancestors of course. It pains me to destroy such firm friendship.” His deep blue eyes met Bard’s misty green gaze. “Thorin and his companions murdered dozens of Elves in Mirkwood and nearly killed one of my most trusted friends. They are criminals and murderers, Bard, who grievously harmed my people, and as King it is my duty to see justice done.”

 

“You will forgive me if I say that there will be two sides to that story.” Bard pointed out, the dwarves had not said much but mentioned captivity in Mirkwood.

 

The elf sighed. “I would ask you to believe my word… but how could you?” he said softly. “The day the dragon came I did not just leave the dwarves to contend with the horror they had created but I also left your people to burn.”

 

Bard arched an eyebrow. “That is ancient history, King of the Woodland Realm, but I do not make a habit of judging people without hearing their side of the story.”

 

“But it is part of your distrust for me,” Thranduil observed. “Your people had to flee their burning city and to survive in this unforgiving land all alone…”

 

“If you regret it so much… there must be more to it,” Bard found himself saying, he had always heard people out, and the Elf deserved that as much as anyone else.

 

“When the dragon came… I froze,” Thranduil said softly. “I saw that mighty fire drake in the skies and fear took me,” he looked at Bard. “I am not a warrior such as yourself, Bard. You would have stood and fought, no matter the odds, my Captain-General would have fought… but I… I was not prepared for that. I froze and all I wanted to do was protect my people from that horror scorching your city.”

 

There was a strange vulnerability in the Elven King in this moment, and Bard wondered if he should be here at all. At least not without some good protectors. “It is perfectly natural, Thranduil,” he said, using the name in that moment, speaking to the person, not the King. “We all have fears, we all have moments when we are so afraid we want to run and hide… that is how we survive. Warriors get trained to ignore all those reflexes that would save them… but it should never be expected from others.”

 

“You are a very generous man, Bard of Dale,” Thranduil said with a small smile. “I will not pressure you, for I could not expect you to follow me into any fight… but I wish very much I had you by my side when confronting Thorin. He is… a warrior through and through, hardened and cruel.”

 

Bard bowed his head and looked down on the dark water, a part in him wanted to tell the elf he’d protect him, there was no need for such a graceful being like Thranduil to go to battle, when there were men like Bard who had been trained for the deathly game all their lives. But another, greater part, remembered his talk with Thorin and while the dwarf certainly was a prideful and stubborn man, he also was proud and honorable… he could not be a murderer. “If I send one of my people up to the Mountain to parley, see if there is a way to resolve this without further bloodshed, would you agree?” he asked eventually.

 

“I would fear for the life of the messenger,” Thranduil said. “Thorin… he is beyond reason.” He lightly touched Bard’s shoulder with his hand. “Think about it, Bard. I will ask the Master to give you time to think this through. No one should be forced into a battle he does not wish to fight.” With that he turned away and left to return to the Hall.

 

ADL

 

“You can pour all a pleasure houses’ perfumes on it, if a contract stinks it stinks; no matter how often the other side takes a bath.” Hagil’s voice was gruff and direct, the old mercenary stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest on the north pier of the city, facing Bard. “And I tell you, I’d not touch an Oathbreaker’s contract for all the gold in the treasury of Minas Tirith.”

 

“Not that they have that much in the way of money, anyway.” Aiken added, the younger fighter sat on one of the pollards of the pier and had listened to all Bard had to say quietly so far. The Captain had sought council with them, feeling that the two men who had fought for so many different masters might be able to help clear away his own doubts. “But Bard, I do agree with Hagil, these Elves claim that they are hunting a dozen murderers – and they bring all their army for that? It’s a full three banners camped out on the shore, and that’s a careful estimate.”

 

“I wish I knew more,” Bard replied. “Thranduil claimed the dwarves murdered many of his people along with one of his councilors, and he is not entirely lying.”

 

“If I have to break out of a dungeon, I will leave a trail of bodies behind, that’s part of the deal.” Aiken said. “Bard, I know Dwalin. He is hard as nails, he is uncompromising and he is fierce… but he is a man of honor. He is no murderer.”

 

“Do we have any option to stay out of this?” Hagil asked. “Tell the elves politely to leave our city and good luck with their undertaking?”

 

“No, the Master is already committed,” Bard made a fist, nearly hitting the wooden wall of the warehouse beside the pier. “He only sees the gold. Once Thorin is dead, the way to the gold lies open for those who can claim it. Hagil… Thorin was a friend of my family, my grandfather spoke of him with such reverence… I can’t betray him. It would be wrong, and dishonorable, and… I can’t.” He knew that his words made little sense; he spoke what was in his heart, raw and unpolished as that was.

 

“Then don’t,” Aiken said directly. “I won’t either. I will be off today, once this is settled. Dwalin deserves advance warning of what’s coming.”

 

So there would be Dale’s people on both sides of the conflict…. Bard closed his eyes. “If we do not follow the Master, our people may lose their right to live here, Aiken.”

 

“And that makes it still not right,” Hagil looked at Bard, his eyes holding a strange expression. His hand had closed around a small item that he wore on a leather band around his neck, usually the ancient gold clasp was hidden under his armor, but now it was in his hand, as if it reminded him of something. “Bard… I have fought for foreigners all my life, for fools and tyrants, for a few heroes and dreamers too… and I know that no outside force, no ‘I have to do this because…’ can make a cause right or better. If you fight for the wrong side, you always come out dirty, and sometimes with things you will never be able to forgive yourself.”

 

It was maybe the first time the old mercenary had allowed Bard to look behind the stern mask he wore, to see the scars, the disappointments and the cruelties he had seen and lived through. “If… if I were to do this right, Hagil, I will need each and every one of our people.” Bard said, feeling a great weight settling upon him.

 

Aiken jumped off the pollard, coming to stand beside Hagil, the two warriors exchanged only a glance, it was all it took. “And we will stand with you, my Lord.”

 

ADL

 

Kili strode into the main throne hall of Erebor fuming, his temper barely held in check, the young dwarven warrior only stopped once, to address three people he saw. “Glóin, Óin, Bombur, leave us, please, I have a matter to discuss with _His Highness._ ” The three left at once, seeing that there was a storm brewing up inside Durin’s House.

 

Thorin had been standing close to the old throne, now piled with treasure and gold encrusted armor pieces. “What brings you here, Kili?” he asked, not turning around, his eyes on the Arkenstone in his hands.

 

“To ask you when you took an extended leave from your senses.” Kili said directly. “Throwing Lachanar into a cell was not exactly smart, forbidding Balin to send for whatever aid we can hope for is stupid and now wanting the treasure moved into the hidden chambers… Uncle, are you insane?”

 

Thorin whipped around, Kili’s words easily riling his temper. “There is no aid we can count on, Kili and I will not demean myself and beg for it. And Lachanar can’t be trusted; he needs to stay in that cell. We do not have enough men to guard the treasure as it is.”

 

“To guard this junk?” Kili actually kicked against several gold vessels, spilling their content, mostly coins and jewels all over the floor. “We did not come here for all the treasure; we came here to give our people a home and a future. And now we can make use of the treasure to ensure this home will be here for them. Offer Thranduil enough gold to roll in, it may soothe his bruised ego and offer weregild for the families of the elves we killed during our escape…”

 

“No!!” Thorin shouted. “I will not give one silver penny to those traitors. And you will stop questioning my wisdom. We will stand through this without giving up the hoard.”

 

Angrily Kili picked up one of the gold vessels and flung it across the room with all his strength. “I do not care about the gold – I would prefer a pile of solid black steel over all this gold. It is useless, it is dark… and it is not worth one life given in its defense. Father… you must hear me. This is not right, and you know it. You are lusting after the gold like…”

 

“Lusting am I?” Thorin snapped, his rage rising but he held it in. “Kili… I know you do not value gold, for you do not know it. You learned your craft with steel and copper, and you learned it beautifully… but imagine what you could do with these? You will come to love the gold, Kili, when you give it a chance.”

 

“I do not want to love it, Thorin.” Kili crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It is still a lesser metal, from which neither tool nor weapon can be made. And we did not come here for the gold. At least let Lachanar go, he proved his friendship to you when he came to warn us. They should not find him here, after we all are dead.”

 

“Friend? Do not dare to call any elf my friend,” Thorin spat. “They only want to steal our treasure, and betray us.”

 

Kili’s eyes had darkened to an unreadable expression; pain had vanished from them, retreating behind a façade. “I have to say, you make a splendid figure as King under the Mountain, father, right up there with Thrór who went mad. But you forget that I was the one who killed the dragon. You may dismiss the others; you may even dismiss Balin who really deserves better than that! But you won’t dismiss me and my words. I am Prince of the Mountain and the Dragonslayer… and I have a say in this.” The young dwarf stood firmly, his eyes fixed on the King, not wavering under Thorin’s intense glare.

 

“Are you?” Thorin asked. “That can be remedied.” He drew Orcrist, the blade heavy in his hand. “Fili was always my heir of choice, had Dis only held her tongue.” He advanced, attacking Kili.

 

The younger dwarf retreated a few steps and drew his own blade, falling into battle stance. “Then name him your heir,” he snapped. “I never wanted to be the Prince of the Mountain. It was you who dredged up the past, who had to change it all.”

 

They swords clashed, Thorin having the longer reach and greater experience quickly pushing Kili into the defensive. “You were the dragonkiller… but you have done your task,” Thorin growled, attacking all the more fiercely. “And you do not value the gift our ancestors left us.”

 

Their fighting continued in earnest, Kili switching gears to a quick footed, agile fighting style that forced Thorin to chase after him, the uneven grounds strewn with treasures made their fight a hazardous undertaking, both slipped several times, but came up quickly enough to fight on. “Listen to yourself, father,” Kili tried to reason with Thorin. “Something is wrong here. The treasure is touched by the Bane, like all our family ever possessed. Can’t you feel it? It is evil.”

 

“You lie!” Thorin advanced swifter, forcing Kili to parry a storm of attacks; the dwarven king was a sword fighter of years of experience, while Kili was still more of an archer. The young Prince stood no chance against his enraged father. Thorin finally disarmed him near the doors of the halls, Kili’s sword flew through air and cluttering down on the stone floor outside the hall. “And so it ends,” Thorin spat. “Maybe your mother can comfort you in the dark deeps…”

 

“No!” A shout rose from outside the hall as someone came racing towards them. With one heavy impact Kili was pushed out of the way and Orcist impaled itself in Fili’s chest instead.

 

To his horror Thorin saw Fili sink to the ground, Orcist buried in his chest, blood was already pooling under the dwarf’s body. “Fili….” Thorin’s voice broke, when what he had done came crashing down on him.

 

“Get away from him!” Kili snapped, kneeling down beside his brother. “Get Óin! Quickly!” He called out loud, knowing that others would be in the hallways outside.

 

“It is far too late for that,” Boromir had entered the hall only moments after Fili when he had seen the dwarf sprint towards his brother. “Kili… that wound… he does not have long.”

 

Kili’s eyes filled with tears, as he tried to console Fili, who clasped his hand. “Thorin…” Fili whispered softly.

 

“Even now he is calling for you,” Kili growled, fierce anger directed at his father. “And you murdered him.”

 

Thorin knelt down beside Fili, pain and self-loathing so clearly etched on his face that even Kili did not manage to send him away again. The young dwarf looked up to Boromir. “You said I used a spell to save you back… in that other life. Do you know which?”

 

“I do, but… Kili… I cannot work it, I never had the arcane talent, it is rare even among the descendants of Numenór.” Boromir wished he had the penchant of his own father for the forbidden arts, it was the first time ever that he wished he had even tried to learn them, instead of calling them old rubbish. “And you…”

 

“Dwarves can’t work spells, I know that.” Kili said. “We can wield them into metal and stone, inscribe them into horn and bone but… we can’t make them work out of ourselves, that is a gift only the Firstborn have.” His voice was dejected and pained. “I wish…”

 

“What if you took me?” Thorin asked in a low broken voice. “Took my power to sustain whatever magic it is that can save Fili?”

 

“I hardly know the spell,” Boromir said “but I doubt it will work like that.”

 

“Show me,” Kili commanded, some measure of control returning to him. In this moment again Boromir saw Kili Ravenswing push past the young Prince, and he would not give up until there were no options left to try.

 

The Gondorian closed his eyes, remembering, pushing the memory into the bond with all his might, hoping Kili would be able to see the runes in the sword hilt, the spell they used to save Faramir.

 

“Amazing…” Kili whispered. “Whoever taught me that… he must have been a Master of the Art…” he checked his own admiration at once. “We can’t use the dragon’s teeth, they are still raw, untamed. I can’t tap into them like that.”

 

“So… it would work with another artifact?” Boromir asked, a tiny spark of hope rising in him. But Kili had always said the spell was inscribed on the dragon sword.

 

“Usually it would not,” Kili said honestly. “But… with enough strength from an artifact and our bond… Boromir, I would have to touch the spell as it is inscribed on you, because you used it before, fuelled by the strength of an artifact, it just might work.”

 

Thorin had held Fili’s hand, not even having the words to beg his forgiveness, what he had done could not be forgiven and he knew that. He would never forgive himself for killing his Fili. “An artifact?” he asked his voice still low. With his free hand he took the Arkenstone that he still carried with him, the jewels’ light shone coolly in the hall. In this moment he did not feel any lure or call from the stone, he would give it up; he would give up all the hoard if it only could undo what had happened, if it could save Fili. “Could the stone… could it be enough?”

 

Kili touched the stone with his fingertips, willing his mind to be still. “It is powerful… and dark… oh so dark… like the night of the deeps. But… maybe.” He looked at Boromir. “I have no idea if I can control this. It might kill all three of us.”

 

Boromir nudged Thorin to make room, so Fili’s head would rest in Thorin’s lap, while he knelt on the other side of the dying dwarf. “Then we go all three, we are brothers.” He said, unafraid. He knew this was it, Kili had rejected the curse and if he was to judge the look in Thorin’s haunted eyes the dwarven King was breaking free as well.

 

Kili gently touched Fili’s hair. “Fili… we need you to focus. Once we remove the blade it will get very cold, but you need to stay with us.”

 

He saw Fili’s weak nod, his brother had not the strength to speak, or whisper. Looking up he met Boromir’s eyes. “Do it.” Boromir pulled Orcrist out of the wound, and the blood began to flow. Kili placed the Arkenstone right above the wound, his hand on it, Boromir’s above, with their other hand they held Fili’s, forming a circle. Kili closed his eyes focusing on the bond, he had to reach for the spell, for the runes through Boromir, who had aided working this spell already once and he had to tap into the jewel, which was the hardest part, the stone was dark, so seductively dark, the whispers spreading through Kili like tendrils when he found the well inside the stone, linking it with his own well of power. He ignored the promises the stone whispered to him.

 

Do not speak of hope forlorn

though night may cloud your eyes,

From darkness rises a new morn'

and so the darkness dies.

 

He had to push the words out, struggling to gain a hold on the powerful runes in Boromir’s mind. It was like fighting in the quicksand, like being drowned by something dark and powerful. Boromir’s voice echoed the words steadily, he felt his friend’s strength of will aiding him, how Boromir managed to relinquish control so much, allowing him to touch this memory he did not know.

 

Don't fear the long dark night ahead,

when dusk begins to rise,

you fought, you stood and you have bled,

and so the darkness dies.

 

The spell began to take hold, nearly crushing Kili, drawing every little droplet out of his own well of power, and then some more, the power of the Arkenstone began to flow into it and he had to fight to keep control of the blue dancing rune band in his mind.

 

Raise your eyes towards the stars

before the darkness flies,

they call you home from all the wars

and so the darkness dies.

 

Pain soared through them they all three felt the stab of the blade impaling them, the wound bleeding out, the life was yanked from them and into the stone, spreading through Fili like a wave, even as the pain was nearly unbearable. And then the darkness engulfed them, a cool endless blackness stretching all around them. Fili’s and Kili’s hands touched, and for one moment Boromir saw them differently, much like he had seen them long ago, when the older Kili and his brother’s spirit had stood in the same place. A spark rose out of the darkness, the fire of a mighty forge, the heat as intense as the cold before. And there was a light, a bright brilliant light rising from the flames, engulfing them.

 

Kili gasped, as he was suddenly back in his body, more weary and exhausted than ever before in his entire life. He felt Boromir’s hand tighten above his and then let go. Kili did the same. There was nothing left of the wound, it was entirely gone and the Arkenstone too had evaporated.

 

ADL

 

It was that evening that the people of Dale assembled in an empty warehouse at the outer pier of Esgaroth. They were a diverse group, craftpeople, traders, warriors and mercenaries, men and women, old people and youngsters. All those who would still heed Bard’s call, some had not come, having chosen to no longer regard Girion’s blood as their leader. Others were here that had no blood ties to Dale, like Egil. In the light of the torches Bard saw faces he knew, people from families he encountered daily and others who had chosen to travel afar and were only here for the winter. His people. Seeing all of them assembled brought fresh doubts to him. Could he even consider doing this? It would burn all bridges behind them.

 

“Bard,” Asbiorn was the one who spoke up. “You called us here and it can only be about one thing: The Master planning to march on Erebor.”

 

So the news was already out in the city. “Yes, that is why I asked you here.” Bard said, stepping up on an empty crate, so all could see and hear him. “For four generations we have lived in this city, repaying her hospitality by defending her. Now her Master wishes to go to war – to murder – our old ally and friend Thorin of the Lonely Mountain, and he demands we march with him. It is a line I cannot cross, and if it were only myself I would ride North and fight alongside King Thorin. But I am not only one man, and my actions would have repercussions for all of you. That is why you are here today, to make a decision.”

 

He could see surprise and awe in their faces, there were whispers and glances exchanged between them, but he could sense a greater understanding between them. They had already spoken of this before coming here. There was a bit of shuffling as three people stepped forward, the people of Dale had always send three speakers to their King when they had things to address. Asbiorn the Blacksmith, Isleif, the Pewterer and Asa the Healer stepped forward, Asa standing between the two men. “My Lord,” she began speaking, clearly so that all could hear her. “The people of Dale may be a nation of refugees and wanderers, but the people of Dale were always a nation of honor. And so, with a heavy heart, we say that we will leave this city.”

 

“The people of Dale never forsook their alliances,” Isleif went on. “And we will stand by them today, as we have always done. We will follow your North.”

 

“And we will fight.” Asbiorn finished the verdict. The blacksmith took the blade he had brought with him, a greatsword, handing it to Bard hilt first. “We will follow you to battle.”

 

Bard’s throat tightened as he took the blade, he knew they had always looked to him as a leader, but the trust and loyalty he saw in them tonight was something beyond what he had ever believed possible, or reasonable. “I do not have words to say what I am feeling tonight,” he said honestly. “But I doubt that even the greatest kings of old had a prouder or more honorable people to stand with them.”

 

ADL

 

Fili, Kili and Boromir held each other in a hug, unable to speak or express what had just happened, they all three sensed the bond now extending to Fili as well. Thorin had let go of Fili the moment it was over and was about to leave the hall without disturbing them, but Fili noticed it. “Thorin… wait.” The blond dwarf called out, not wanting Thorin to go like that.

 

“Fili,” Thorin’s voice was rough with emotion. “Please… let me go. There is nothing I can say…” He could not ask for forgiveness, because what he had done was simply unforgiveable. Thorin loathed his own weakness, he had seen his grandfather fall to the curse and Thrain fall to madness… and he had still let the gold take him, accounting the value of the accursed treasure above the true treasure of his heart.

 

Fili scrambled to his feet, quickly squeezing the shoulder of his brother and Boromir, knowing they would understand and hurried after Thorin. Grasping his arm he held him back. “Please… don’t go,” he said. “Whatever we can do to make this right again…”

 

“Whatever you can do…?” Thorin gently clasped Fili’s shoulders. “Fili… it was I who failed you, who betrayed you. You were always there for me, you kept me sane when everything was nothing but darkness and a life in the lone lands… and I… I failed you.”

 

“You stumbled,” Fili said gently. “But you did not fall and you made up for it. You gave Kili the stone to save me.”

 

“The stone… it was not worth your life, nothing here is.” Thorin said fiercely. “I was so blind… I did not see the true treasure I had, and stared at the gold.”

 

Fili extended a hand, asking Kili to join them. With the fierce anger Kili still held he may have refused but it took no more than glance from Fili to change that. He rose and walked over, grasping Fili’s hand, clutching Thorin’s shoulder with the other. “Fili is right, like always,” he said. “You fought the bane, Thorin… and you beat it in the end.” He knew what Boromir had told him about the curse and he could feel that it was broken; with the Arkenstone willingly given up to be destroyed, the last hold of the curse had been crushed, for Thorin had found it in himself to reject the curse.

 

“You are more than I deserve,” Thorin whispered. “How can you even stand being close to me after… after I nearly killed you.” He meant both; he had meant to kill Kili and his blade had struck down his brother instead.

 

Both brothers pulled him into a fierce embrace. “Because you deserve being forgiven,” Fili said. “and because we belong together. We are nothing without the others.”

 

“Because you are our father,” Kili’s voice too was hoarse now. “The only one we ever had.”

 

Thorin’s fierce hug drew the boys close, holding onto them for dear life.

 

With a smile Boromir watched the three, having retreated to the exit of the hall to give them some space. He could not even fathom how strong Fili was, how he could forgive such an act. To this very day Boromir had never forgiven Denethor for what he had done to Faramir. But he knew now that these three were stronger than that, they had the power to overcome even such a grievous moment. And he too felt something else, a darkness lifting from the place never to return. The last vestiges of the curse, Arwen had said, now that the ring had left the house. And all three of them had freed themselves of the curse. No longer would it haunt Durin’s Line. It was a victory he could not share with anyone, but it was not necessary. Seeing the two brothers and Thorin, still holding onto each other, finally free of the nightmares that had plagued their line since they took up the first of the seven, was more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes
> 
> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D


	23. Stronger than Blood

“Someone braid my hair up and call me a dwarf,” Asbiorn whispered. “They are really camping on that shore as well.” Squatted behind the shielded lamp at the boat’s bow, the blacksmith had his bow ready to shoot, peering intently into the dark on the shore they approached.

 

Having realized that the Woodland army was blocking their way out of the city, the people of Dale had taken to crossing the lake with boats in the dead of night. Thought they had come across another problem, they had spotted firelight on the other side as well. The first boats were to assess the threat, while the main bulk of the boats were still out on the water.

 

“Only one fire, it might be a scout post, a lookout.” Bard pointed out. He too was on the first boat, along with a number of fighters. They might have to force their way out, but would prefer not to be the ones to start the bloodshed. He turned to Galfeir of the longboatmen. “Bring us in, we cannot lose more time. Hagil, Aiken, you are with me.”

 

Once the boat hit the shore, guided there by the steady hand of Galfeir, Bard jumped into the shallow waters and walked ashore, he knew Hagil and Aiken were with him. The fire truly belonged to a camp, and one they had startled up, that much was obvious. Whoever was in that camp had not been on their lookout. A numbered of people got to their feet, having sat by the fire, then swiftly approached Bard.

 

The Bowman’s heart sank, for a moment he had hoped they might be traders or dwarves from the Iron Hills. But they were clearly elves. Two of them approached him directly, both wore a type of armor he had never seen before and had dark hair. “Well met, strangers,” one of them spoke, his Westron very melodious. “If we have trespassed on the grounds of your city we apologize. My people and I will be gone by morning, you have our word.”

 

“You are not with the Host of the Woodlands?” Bard asked, surprised. Maybe they were here to join with Thranduil, who knew what kind of help the Elven King could call upon?

 

The other elf, who had icy blue eyes shot a near glare at Bard. “No, we are not with our _esteemed brethren,”_

 

“Peace, Aelin,” the first raised his hand, forestalling some more words from his friend, before turning to Bard. “I am Elrohir, son of Elrond. I am on my way North with my people.”

 

ADL

 

Thorin opened the door of the cell, it was a simple, clean, empty stone room without anything in it. He was not surprised to find Lachanar sitting near the door, calmly and unmoved. He knew it was partially a façade, Lachanar had been a warrior for too long to not attain that iron hard, cold mask that would come out once in enemy hands. And elves could out-wait nearly anyone; their patience would drive guards easily up the walls. He stood up when Thorin entered. Their eyes met and Thorin pointed to the door. “You can go, Lachanar, if you are swift you should be far away before the army arrives.”

 

The elf arched an eyebrow. “What happened with needing my knowledge?” he asked not unfriendly. “There are a few captains in the host that may be swayed, or become hesitant if tackled correctly and Malenior, for all his bravery has never seen a major battle…”

 

“We are not enough to put up a major battle, Lachanar,” Thorin pointed out. “There won’t be any help from Dáin, if you think he may assist, he made it clear that retaking the mountain was my task and mine alone.”

 

“I am not surprised,” Lachanar replied in regards to Dáin, he had heard enough of that Dwarf Lord to know what to expect. “but… back… back then, when we returned from the Withered Heath you said that the fortress had extensive siege engines, catapults, traps to fill whole halls with fire, that practically the entire outer layer of the fortress was a maze of deathly traps. The Silvan army is only lightly armored; they are not exactly the troops to storm any fortress, once inside they will be at a disadvantage…”

 

Thorin could see the former Captain-General of Mirkwood had already taken to think about this, about strategies, even as they meant to kill his own people. “Why?” he asked gruffly. “Why are you helping me? I did not make you welcome here.”

 

Lachanar crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Because that’s what I should have done in the first place.” He stated calmly. “When I realized that Thranduil would not be swayed, that he was too afraid to risk the battle.”

 

“No,” Thorin shook his head, ever since what had happened the previous evening; he had the time to think hard on his own actions. “You were trapped between your oath to your King and your loyalties to a friend… not much of a friend, at that.”

 

“But still a friend,” Lachanar interjected. “Shadow above, Thorin, I knew Thranduil could be as bad as Amrir when it came to battlefield control, but…”

 

“No,” Thorin bridged the gap between them, his strong hand touching the elf’s arm. “You had to keep your oath… you could not have aided me. Not with your king turning back. Forgive my anger…”

 

“Your anger was more than justified, Thorin.” Lachanar said. “And it’s all in the past now, we have a battle ahead of us.”

 

“You truly intend to stay?” Thorin asked, still not believing Lachanar would fight against his own people. He could see the answer in Lachanar’s gaze. “Then… welcome back to the Mountain.”

 

There was a true smile on Lachanar’s scarred face. “It is good to be back here, Thorin.”

 

ADL

 

Three days later Thorin found Lachanar and Dwalin on one of the towers by the upper battlements. “I’d not see a thing if it were not for the dust,” he heard the dwarven warrior grumble.

 

“Three marching columns,” Lachanar confirmed, pointing them out. “Malenior is spreading them out for the march, there is a fourth, I think, but they are so far off, I can hardly see them.”

 

Dwalin barked a laugh. “Your elven eyes see more than ours would anyway, Lachanar. But why spread them out, it’s not a smart thing to do.”

 

The Elf shrugged. “Most of the meaningful books on warfare have been written by Noldor, Dwalin and most Sindar have refused to learn from them. This is what cost us so many lives during the last Alliance.” And those who had been willing to learn from Gil-Galad’s troops had quickly found themselves at conflict with their Sindar brethren.

 

Dwalin turned around when he noticed Thorin. “Thranduil is less than a day away, Thorin.” He said, pointing at the clear autumn skies and a small cloud of dust marring the crisp cool color.

 

Thorin did not need an explanation to know that the dust was the sign of the approaching troops, and unsurprisingly Lachanar could see them with his keen elven eyes. He looked to the side, where Kili and Boromir where studying the same view. The last three days had been spent preparing, formulating plans and then getting ready for them. Thorin had considered going to the Reach but he had found the stairwell leading up destroyed and blocked by rubble.

 

“Armory, everyone,” he ordered. It was time for them to gear up, to arm themselves for the fight that lay ahead of them. Their plan was more than a bit crazy and desperate, but it was not entirely hopeless. In all honesty, Thorin had been shivering more than once when he had seen the plan take shape between Dwalin, Boromir and Lachanar, they may be of three different peoples, of the most different backgrounds, but warfare was what they had dedicated themselves too, and when they threw their knowledge and experience together, they came up with a scary plan.

 

Erebor’s main armory had been broken open by the dragon long ago, but except for creating some chaos it was still in good shape. “At least the dragon did not drag it all out into the main hoard,” Dwalin grumbled, as he surveyed the place. “Fili, Kili, give me a hand, we need to move this.” The two younger dwarves assisted Dwalin to move aside a stone chest that had been pushed before the adjacent door that led deeper into the armory. Kili opened the chest and grinned. “At least I will not run out of arrows quickly,” he observed, seeing that the chest was stacked with long steel arrows.

 

Thorin approached his sons, seeing Dwalin grin at Kili’s comment. “Fili, Kili… help the others, some of them will need it.” he said, being well aware that a number of their brave companions had little experience with this. The brothers at once turned to Bofur and Bifur, aiding their comrades to find armor that would fit them and their respective fighting style. Not far away Thorin spotted Bilbo conversing with Bombur, who was donning a studded leather armor. The Halfling was too small for most of the armor stocked here, most of it was made for dwarves, but there were a number of pieces meant for trade that would fit Boromir, but for Bilbo nothing here would fit. Except…

 

Thorin strode through the armory, reaching the back end of the main hall, he turned towards a door that had been smashed much like the others. The room behind was fairly untouched, the dragon had been unable to get in there. Swiftly Thorin found a black stone chest, adorned with griffins cut into the dark stone. Although it had been more than a century Thorin’s fingers found the mechanism to unlock the chest at once, he needed both arms to lift the lid still. The upper half of the chest was stacked with various armor pieces, all of them familiar and most of them not what he was looking for. Thorin put them on a half empty shelf that had been placed there for exactly that reason. When he dug deeper he found what he had been looking for. Two near identical bundles encased in heavy leather. He lifted them out of the chest and placed them on the closed lid of another stone box to his left before carefully unwrapping the bundles. They held two small chainmail shirts, they were near identical, except that one was made for a slightly broader frame and had full arms, while the other had been made for a lighter frame and was only reaching down half-arm, to the elbow.

 

It made Thorin smile; he remembered the day Frérin had worn this the first time, only ten years old and so proud that day.  The small bracers had been in the bundle along with the belt. Tarvi had made them; Thrór would only have the best make these… Tarvi who had taught Thorin the art, and who had died fighting beside Frérin in Azanulbizar. His work still could protect a life dear to Thorin. “Bilbo, come here!” he called out for their Hobbit.

 

Bilbo came into the room, nearly stumbling over a bundle of shields Dwalin had put into the doorframe. “Can I help you with something, Thorin?” he asked. “Not that it really seems necessary; most of the company seem perfectly at home in an overstocked armory.”

 

“You can get rid of those rags and put this on,” Thorin replied. “It should fit you and not be too heavy either.”

 

Bilbo shook his head. “Thorin, I can’t, I never learned to wear something like that, I am not used to the weight…”

 

“It was made for a child, to grow into the habit of wearing armor,” Thorin pointed out. “And it will keep you alive once the fighting begins.”

 

The Hobbit sighed but gave in. “I will look ridiculous indeed,” he proclaimed, but there was humor in his eyes, like he was waiting for Thorin’s reaction to a bout of Hobbitishness.

 

Luckily Dwalin joined them, his eyes falling on Bilbo who vanished behind a rack of shields to change. “Frérin’s?” he asked softly. “Yours would never fit him.”

 

“Frérin’s,” Thorin confirmed. “I hope it will keep him alive once the fighting starts.” He could see understanding in Dwalin’s eyes; they knew all too well what they were in for.

 

“I found your armor,” Dwalin said, changing the subject. “It should not need adjustments, the dragon had it stacked with some of the other pieces in the outer hall.”

 

Thorin knew what armor Dwalin spoke of, it was the same he had worn when he had been officially presented as a Prince to his people. He had been fully grown then and knew it should still fit, but… he felt hesitant to don the same armor again. “No, Dwalin,” he said eventually. “I am not used to plate armor any more. Find me a soldier’s chain and scales in the armory.”

 

He could see the protest in his old friend’s face but then Dwalin nodded curtly and did as he was bid. Thorin followed him back into the main armory, where he could hear Kili’s voice. “Mahal’s jewels, Boromir, that thing will slow me down too much!”

 

“It will protect your body while not taking away your agility, Kili,” the Gondorian replied. “It leaves your lower arms and hands free, for use of the bow but will protect you in close quarters fighting.” The warrior had helped Kili with a combination of chain mail armor with scales reinforcing the chest and sides.

 

Fili was getting similar help from Lachanar but with chainmail reinforced with a real plate layer, being a primary melee fighter this was the best option for him and he was not squirming like Kili. Dwalin had found what Thorin had asked him for and Thorin changed swiftly, the familiar weight of a full armor settling on him. When he was done, he saw Kili having tracked down a harness that would fit Boromir above the black chainmail he wore, along with steel gauntlets.

 

And he heard Fili snort derisively at something. “That chainmail of yours ought to get the armorer hanged, Lachanar, whoever thought that was something to not be tossed back into to the melting pit? I wonder if there are some armor pieces left here from back when Erebor was trading with your people.”

 

“The other side of the armory,” Thorin observed. “And Lachanar, stop being difficult. Fili is right, that chainmail is an atrocity and bad armor cost your people more than a few battles in the past. I won’t have one of mine in such things.”

 

ADL

 

The setting sun found Thorin up on the battlements above the closed gate again; the elven army had arrived, their host spreading out along the valley of Dale and Ravenhill. He had been called up here by Dwalin, because a single troop of about one hundred elves led by their King had come into range of the gate, the typical opening of a parley. Thorin had climbed onto the battlement, standing visibly above the gates, seeing Thranduil again on his elk, brought back memories of that other day. No. Thorin did not allow himself to think of that anymore, he would not allow the past to rule him any longer. He had made too many mistakes already.

 

“Elves of Mirkwood, what brings you to the gates of the Kingdom of Erebor?” It was Balin who had shouted, when the elves had come to halt.

 

Thranduil gestured the elven warrior beside him, who looked up. “We are here to demand justice for those you murdered in Mirkwood and to regain the Whispy you stole from the Palace.” He called out. “If you return the Whispy undamaged our King will be magnanimous and spare your lives.”

 

Thorin frowned, what was a whispy and why did Thranduil think he had it? “Lachanar?” he asked in a whisper. “Any insights?”

 

“A whispy is a willow seedling, he might want his tree spirit back,” The elf replied as hushed, but the fine ears of the elves down below had picked up his voice.

 

“And we demand the traitor back for justice.” Malenior, for he was the speaker, added.

 

Thorin shot him a glare. “We did not take anything from the tree, Thranduil.” He replied loud enough to be heard but not shouting. “So I cannot give you what you wish for and I will not hand any of mine over to you, either. Nevertheless, I will offer weregild for those we killed during our escape or that were killed by our allies.” He was sure Elrohir had not killed someone, his blade had been clean, but Aelin’s had been bloodied and others might have fought as well.

 

Thranduil raised his eyes so he could see Thorin where he stood on the battlements. “You lie, I know you took the Whispy,” he said his voice echoing clearly through the cold evening. “And even if I were inclined to leave the traitor to you to do as you see fit… you are not in a position to negotiate. You have barely a dozen fighters on these empty walls, you stand abandoned by your cousin in the Iron Hills…”

 

The soft swishing sound of a crossbow being fired cut through the air, moments before a well-aimed bolt form above hit Thranduil’s mount in the eye, killing it. The elf only just managed to jump off his dying beast. “Our King does not stand alone!”

 

Thorin had to crane his neck to see the figure rising on one of the icy shoulders of rock above. It was the short figure of a dwarf, clad in dark armor, the light of the sinking sun touched his hair making it shine like molten gold. Demonstratively he reloaded his crossbow, while behind him, from cover behind rocks and ice more and more warriors rose. Another was on a spot nearly as exposed; he was armed with a crossbow as well and had an axe on his back. Thorin’s heart jumped painfully, the people of the Reach! It had to be… there could be no doubt. He could not see the entire rock face above the gates but judging by what he could see alone they had come in number.

 

“You have heard us, elf-king!” The one with the axe called out. “You are not welcome at these gates. Turn your army around and leave this land.”

 

“I will not!” Anger marred Thranduil’s voice. “No matter how many dwarven rabble may be hiding under the ice and rocks. Your so-called King will pay for his crimes.”

 

“Send out your champion and we will take care of that right away!” The one who had shot the elk called out. “Or do you fight for yourself? It will be a pleasant duty to send you home to your ancestors.”

 

The one with the axe laughed grimly. “You have heard him, elf-king. Belfionn fights for us and for the Reach, who fights for you?”

 

Thorin frowned, he knew that the tradition of having two champions fight to clear a conflict was ancient elven, but had certainly fallen out of practice long since and the name the dwarf had just been called by was not dwarven either. “If it came to that I should fight him myself,” he said it loud enough for all to hear, eliciting a bright laughter from the shooter.

 

“Now, Sindar-King, where is your courage?” He baited the Elf further, cheered on by his own people along with  Thorin’s company.

 

Thranduil pulled himself up to his full height. “I do not concern myself with vermin,” he spoke icily. “This mountain is under siege now, see how long you can hold out. Hunger will teach you humility.” He turned around and with him his men as they returned to their camp.

 

Thorin turned towards the dwarves on the height, wondering how they could reach them. With the stairs full of rubble and the stairs of the sky broken, there were not many ways for them to come down to the gate, let alone onto the battlements that led into the mountain. “The winding stair is collapsed,” he called out to the one with the axe.

 

He saw the hands raised in confirmation, before a quick series of Iglishmek gestures followed. Thorin read them and suddenly understood. “The great dome,” he whispered. Of course! The Dome had been broken by the dragon, who had used it to fly out of the mountain, creating a hole reaching up to the ice. Thorin and his company had been unable to make use of it yet, but it would be easier from above. Leaving some of his people to guard the gate, Thorin hurried through the halls towards the cold and frozen hall on the highest levels where the great dome had been. With the passing years the glacier had pressed ice down into the hall, making it even harder to pass.

 

When he arrived there he saw already several ropes dangle down, the dwarves of the Reach climbed down swiftly, they all wore black armor and rough leathers beneath, all of them were well armed but Thorin did not fail to notice their hard appearance. Many were scarred, their faces rough, and the way they moved bespoke a lifetime of fighting.

 

The one with the axe had led one of the first groups down, another came with the crossbow shooter with the strange name, while the second group had given the first some distance and clear precedence by keeping at the back of the proceedings. Searching the face of their leader, Thorin found only a vague familiarity in the face of the dwarf with the axe. He approached them, stepping into the light of the crystal torches they had brought.

 

“Thorin?” The words of their leader were barely a whisper, like he could not believe it.

 

While he would not recognize the face, the voice woke memories in Thorin. He could hardly link the face of the eager young boy he remembered with the hardened warrior standing under the broken dome, but he knew that voice. “Fálki?” His mind knew that the son of Rór would have grown into a man by now, but… but his heart still saw that young dwarf guiding him through the Reach.

 

Their eyes met and he could see true recognition dawn in Fálki’s eyes, a moment before the dwarf knelt before him, his warriors following suit, the second group only a moment later than the rest.

 

Thorin’s throat tightened, after more than a century, after being abandoned on the heights, after having survived the dragon’s reign, the people of the Reach still would see him as their King, Durin’s House the High Kings of the Dwarves. He clasped Fálki’s arm to pull him up. “I never dared hope to see you again or your people…”

 

Fálki actually smiled, giving the hardened warrior’s face an echo of the boy he once had been. “I knew you would come back one day, Thorin… you’d never give up on our people. And… when we saw the dragon crash into Dale, we knew the time had come.” He straightened up, remembering the situation they were in. “We better have the troops move down here, in case the elf wants to storm the walls before the night is through.”

 

“How many did you bring?” Thorin asked, did he dare hope that the Reach’s people had survived in numbers? Could they have survived on that icy peak with all the dangers lurking there and a dragon on top of that?

 

“A few hundred,” Fálki replied. “I did not want to weaken our defenses unduly, the chasm is worse than it ever was. And I will have to ask Belfionn how many Dragonblooded he brought.”

 

Belfionn had approached them and seeing him made Thorin’s heart nearly stand still, for he bore too great a resemblance to Dari, to Fili, only that he had two strange, silvery marks shaped like flames on his temples. “Fálki, I think we can cut stairs into the ice,” he said, ignoring Thorin entirely. “I’ll go with some of my men to do so, we will be faster at it. Should allow us to move supplies down here as well. I’d hate having to run back to the peak for every Frostwyrm-egg we might need.”

 

“Have your men cut the stairs, ours will assist,” Fálki decided. “But stay please, King Thorin’s warmaster will have question on how many people you can bring… and whether they will stay.”

 

The warrior’s stance tensed slightly. “Fálki, we never disputed who was the King of the Mountain… that being Smaug for the last century.” He said calmly. “But I will not begin a dispute on the true King now. He has your allegiance and our support. Our Lord may never swear to him… oh, Ashes and Blood, can we sort that when we are actually rid of a cowardly elf on the front gate?!”

 

Thorin could sense there was much that must have happened on the Reach and the young warrior standing here did most certainly not feel up to it. He smothered a smile; he knew such reactions from his sons, only that this one might be a few decades older. “I would like to know who shot Thranduil’s noble mount and proclaimed me King so bravely, still.” He said to the dwarf, whatever confusions existed up there, they could be sorted in time.

 

“Belfionn, Blade of the Dragonblooded…” The warrior stopped, realizing something and beginning again. “Dari, son of Skar, at your service,” this time he bowed as would be proper among dwarves.

 

Son of Skar... Nephew to Dari, now Thorin understood why he would look so familiar. “Dragonblooded?” he inquired, remembering Bilbo having heard the dragon speak of his crazed children. The dragon could not have sired children… could he? No, that was impossible.

 

“That’s a long tale,” Belfionn said. “And not one that is mine to tell, either.” His eyes went to Fálki, who was clearly uncomfortable with the topic.

 

“It is yours to tell, Fion,” Fálki said slowly. “It was by my mistake it all happened.”

 

“You did what made most sense at the time and we survived,” Belfionn replied. “You did what was necessary to protect the people of the Reach… even if it was from us.” He looked at Thorin. “Is there any way to explain to a stubborn dwarf that he did nothing wrong?”

 

There must be a wealth of hurt and tension in that story, Thorin could see it and he could read it in Fálki’s eyes that had taken a haunted, pained expression. “Walk with me,” he said to them, gesturing Dwalin to take matters in hand here. He led the two dwarves away from the smashed hall and down into the warmer parts of the mountain, stopping in an empty hall. “The dragon spoke of his crazed children before he died,” he said. “But… I cannot believe he would have…”

 

“He did not sire any children, none of the great wyrms ever did that, no matter how much girl snatching the ballads attribute to them,” Belfionn said.

 

Fálki met Thorin’s eyes. “The day the dragon came… he melted our city, many died, my father among them. After he could not leave the main gate anymore he raged in the mountain. Two days later he smashed the dome and came for us…” His eyes had taken a dark, haunted quality, ast he remembered the dark, brutal hours. “My father was dead, with many others and we were trying to retreat into the deeper tunnels but the dragon followed us, we would have all died, but for one man. The Master of the Dragon Forge… he came out.”

 

Thorin remembered how Dari had told him about the nameless one residing in the dragon forge since times beyond memory. The stranger the people of the Reach had found by the lava stream and nursed back to health. “Was he the one who injured the dragon so badly?” he asked, remembering the scar Bilbo had mentioned.

 

“He did indeed,” Fálki said softly. “It was horrible, Thorin, their battle… it was the worst I ever saw… but he made the dragon retreat into the mountain, back to your city. The dragon was wounded and he bled, the blood running into one of our water reservoirs. We had not noticed, so many were exhausted, so many wounded… only when people started dying from drinking the water, we realized something was wrong.”

 

“Dragon blood is dangerous, Fálki,” Thorin said, the arcane smith knowing a bit more on that matter. “Even heroes who have killed dragons and were touched by the blood experienced changes to themselves.”

 

“Aye,” Fálki said. “I forbade people to drink from the reservoir and hoped we wouldn’t have any more dead. But… Thorin, the young, the children who had been drinking from the reservoir did not die. They… they went mad.” Clear pain echoed in his voice. “They saw things that were not there, attacked others, we had to take down several of them like rabid dogs before we realized that they all had drunken the water. And… I knew of another boy who had drunk of that water.” His eyes went to Belfionn who stood beside him.

 

“Many more had, but he knew only of me at the time,” Belfionn interjected gently, he was clearly trying to not make this harder on Fálki.

 

Fálki looked down. “What I did then was the worst decision I ever made as a leader… I told Skar his son would have to die. He was only nine years old, a little dwarfling and…”

 

“And you did what you had to, to protect all of our people,” Belfionn, actually clasped Fálki’s shoulder. “Had you allowed us to stay, serious harm may have come to our people.”

 

Thorin noticed how supportive Belfionn was even as Fálki was clearly not his chosen leader. “Something happened, I take it?” he asked, trying to help Fálki to go on.

 

“Skar would not have it. He was a blind man, Thorin, a Skald, but he told me he’d rather be banished than see his child slaughtered. And thus my guards led him and his son to the surface.” He closed his eyes, as if he could still see the blind harpist and his son vanish into the night on the ice.

 

“You went to the Dragon Forge,” Thorin recalled Dari saying his brother was welcome there because the Master of the Dragon Forge loved his harp music.

 

“Aye,” Belfionn confirmed his guess. “The Lord of the Dragon Forge took us in, and extended the same offer to all other children who had drunk the poisoned water. Fálki sent them to us and he taught us… to deal with our changes, to keep control and not go crazy.”

 

“And he is your Lord now,” Thorin understood, he could read between the scarce lines of Belfionn’s story. He could see the children, cast away from their homeland, taken in by the Master of the legendary forge, raised and trained… growing into his followers. Much bad blood could have come of this and he admired how Fálki and Belfionn had managed to keep a balance and alliance in spite of all that. He looked at them both; in their own way they both were clearly uneasy. “I agree with Belfionn, Fálki, you protected your people, and you gave the children of the dragonblood into the hands of one who could help them.” He looked at Belfionn, who seemed somewhat relieved. “And you have nothing to fear, Erebor will always have room for all those who call the Mountain their home.” And they would sort everything else at some other time.

 

ADL

 

A hand on his shoulder woke Thorin from his uneasy slumber. “Thorin… wake up,” he heard Kili’s voice. The young dwarf was standing beside him, fully armed.

 

“Has Thranduil decided he wants to fight it out?” Thorin got up swiftly, grabbing his weapons. He noticed that there was neither alarm nor hurry, so it could not be an all-out storm just yet.

 

“No, the fourth marching column Lachanar spotted yesterday is arriving and it does not look like Thranduil was expecting them either.” Kili explained. “Could Dáin have gotten his head out of his posterior and send his troops?”

 

Thorin shot Kili a sharp glance; it would not do for a Prince to use veiled profanity about one of his blood relations, no matter how true. “I doubt it,” he said as they set off towards the battlements. When they arrived up there, Thorin narrowed his eyes. It was only dawn and a dark, bleak autumn dawn it was. A long marching line was approaching the mountain on the old trade road, at the front of the column were riders, some were protecting the flanks but too few for a true army. And the column, they had pack ponies, packed goats… many were walking and carrying children. “This is no army, it is people,” Thorin whispered, he had seen such wandering treks too often in his life to ever mistake them for something else. “and the elves will cut them off right at the trade gate.”

 

The trading road had led to the trader’s gate, it was one of the hidden gates into the mountain that could only be opened from the inside. “Dwalin, Fálki, send warriors down to the trader’s gate, we need to open it.”

 

“Thorin…” Dwalin began speaking. “We do not know who they are and why the elves are cutting them off.”

 

“I do know who they are,” Thorin said softly. “Mahal smite me… but I do.” There was only one answer that made any sense, only one that was even possible in this land. “Bring enough warriors to cover the gate; we might have to fight to let them in.” It went against much that his family would have done in the past, but Thorin would not be the dwarven king who left allies outside of his gates, he had learned better than that.

 

They hurried down to the trader’s gate, Fálki was there with his troops, as were Belfionn and his people. Speaking the words for the gate to open Thorin was the first to step outside, warriors fanning out to the left and right of him. And a good thing it was, for the elves were there but they had not yet attacked the people on the road.

 

“Go back to your King and tell him that he can either let us pass or be the one who started the fourth kinslaying,” Only Thorin understood the words the rider on the front of the column had spoken and he recognized the voice.

 

“Elrohir!” He called out, ignoring the woodland elves entirely as he advanced to reach the rider, the dwarven fighters fanned out and created a line of battle between the woodelves and the new arrivals.

 

“Thorin,” Elrohir dismounted his horse, to greet him. Beside him stood Bard of Dale, the warrior looked grim. “The Master of Esgaroth has turned on you and your people, King Thorin,” he said earnestly. “My people and I are here to assist you, as we did in the past.”

 

“Thorin?” Fálki had his crossbow shooters climb vantage points where they could easily shoot the elves. “Who are these people? Men and Elves?” The Lord of the Reach was clearly confused about why they should help them.

 

“They are friends,” Thorin said. “Very loyal friends, Fálki,” He had no time to explain more. “Bard, lead your people into the mountain quickly, we will keep the Elves off you.”

 

“If we let you,” The Woodelven leader had his archers take position. “Our King declared the Mountain besieged.”

 

Elrohir stepped forward, placing himself between Bard and the archers, his warriors followed, forming a line to both sides. “Ask your King if we wants to be the next kinslayer,” he said coldly, drawing his sword.

 

Aelin, who stood beside him shook his head. “As far as that goes, we wouldn’t want him to join,” there was an icy humor to the Noldor’s voice.

 

Bard saw the elf was unsure, not knowing how to deal with the situation and the Bowman did not wait for the stand-off to end. He had their people move towards the door into the mountain, the long column needing time to proceed into the depths of Erebor.

 

Thorin stood with Elrohir, ready to fight or wait it out. “The Dragon is dead,” he said to Elrohir. “Kili got him first.”

 

The Elf shrugged. “It seems you got another dragon to contend with, named Thranduil,” he replied dryly.

 

The dwarven King bit his lip to hide a grin; he liked the elven Prince’s humor. “You have my gratitude for helping Bard and his people, Elrohir.” He said. “But your people… you do not fight wars amongst each other. Once this is done…”

 

“If you say I should go home and forget about it, we have an issue.” Elrohir cast a glance at him, eyes serious. He was already committed to this path. “What Thranduil is doing here is as wrong as what he did to you in Mirkwood and I will not stand aside to let him do this.”

 

“You truly would begin another kinslaying?” The Woodland Captain was clearly shaken by the statement. “How can you even consider taking up arms against your own kind?”

 

“If your King cannot see how wrong his deeds are, then… count me among the kinslayers, I deem them more worthy friends.” Elrohir cast a smile to Aelin who stood not far away. If Thranduil could not be made see reason, then so be it, leaving would mean betrayal.

 

“Thorin, the last are moving inside,” Dwalin reported, gesturing Fálki to withdraw the warriors. Thorin with Dwalin and the elves were the last group to move back to the Mountain and behind them the stone gate sealed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D


	24. We fight as long as we live

All of those who had were not properly armed or had no weapons had been sent to the armory, while the women and children of Dale were sent deeper into the mountain where they would be safely away from any surprise attacks. Kili left the armory in the safe hands of Balin, when he saw the rest of the dragonblooded arrive. They came in their full strength, not leaving any of their kind at the peak. He also saw their leader, the legendary Master of the Forge, a tall warrior walking with the eerie grace of an elf. He too wore armor made of dark steel, and a helm obscured his face. What Kili noted mostly was that he had the shield on the right arm and would wield the blade left… he was one handed. Not that the dwarf paid him much heed, he was looking for someone else. Belfionn of course had reported to his Lord and Kili waited patiently until the blond dwarf was done, before actually pulling Belfionn aside. The warrior turned to him. “Prince Kili?” he asked politely, expecting some other set of orders for the troops.

 

“Please, just Kili, we are cousins after all…” Kili said, waving off the formalities.

 

Belfionn’s eyes narrowed. “I do not think so,” he said firmly. “I do not have any blood family left, albeit your House may be able to shed some light on the fate of my Uncle.”

 

“Of course, you would not know,” Kili said under his breath. “We _are_ cousins, Belfionn. Your uncle is mine. Dari married my aunt, the Lady Dis, daughter of Thrain and brother of my father, and he raised me as his own with his own son. He was as much my father as Thorin is to me now.”

 

As he spoke, the colour drained from the older dwarf’s face, but it was soon replaced by a darker hue. “Do you jest, my Prince?” he asked. “Is this some form of poor joke? Do you purposefully mar the honour and loyalty of my beloved uncle for a few laughs?”

 

Kili frowned. “I… What? No! Of course not! I would never…”

 

“Then how could you say such things?” Fion demanded, his hand reaching over his shoulder and pulling his sword from its sheath. “You dare defile my uncles’ name with such lies? He would never have raised his eyes above his station! Let alone to a high lady!”

 

“If I insult you, I apologise! But it is the truth, I swear!”

 

Belfionn stepped closer, his sword point not an inch away from Kili’s chest. “Prince or no, I will not have my family’s memory besmirched.” The dwarven warrior knew the tales his own father had told him of the Uncle he had never known, and he would not have anyone sully this memory.

 

Kili raised his hands, showing he was unarmed, but he could feel his heart racing in his chest. “I am truly sorry for the pain I have caused you, but I cannot tell you I lie. The words I spoke are as true as the sword in your hand.”

 

The blond dwarf growled, almost snarled, and looked as though he was about to lunge, and so Kili closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to come when…

 

“Brother!”

 

Opening his eyes, Kili found Fili standing in a doorway, eyes open wide in shock. “Fili!”

 

The clatter of metal on stone drew their attention away from each other and towards the only other dwarf in the room. Belfionn had lost his grip on his sword and it had fallen to the ground as he stared unabashedly at the newcomer. “It’s not possible.”

 

Fili frowned at him, trying to understand why he looked so familiar. “Are… are you Belfionn?”

 

The gob smacked dwarf nodded.

 

Sighing, Fili shook his head and turned to face his brother. “Honestly Kili, can you not go one day without being attacked by one of our family?” Turning back to his older cousin, he approached slowly before picking up the fallen sword and holding it out to him. “So, you are my cousin, or so it would seem.”

 

Belfionn could do nothing but nod and reclaim his blade; still trying to process that everything he had just been told was the truth. This dwarf, Fili, looked too much like Skar, like himself, for it to be a coincidence. “I… Forgive me for my outburst, my lords. It was unseemly,” he said falling back into his normal behavior.

 

Fili approached him. “It is forgiven; you are family, after all.” Their eyes met cold blue meeting sea-green. “Dari was my father,” Fili spoke on, still amazed to see features so much like his own on a near-stranger. “He died when I was very young, and I was raised as Kili’s brother by King Thorin. And I am very happy to meet someone from his family.”

 

Belfionn looked at him still amazed. “I find the feeling is mutual,” he said, insecure how to react to all this. “How… how did he die?”

 

“He gave his life for me in Azanulbizar,” Thorin grumbled, the ruckus having caught his attention. “He died a valiant warrior.” He wanted to say something more, but the sound of a horn interrupted their conversation, the alarm was given from the battlements and the horns called them to fight.

 

ADL

 

The horn rang out not an hour after the people of Dale had arrived at the Mountain, it was the alarm call from the main battlements and Dwalin knew what it meant. He raced up the stairs towards the tower, meeting Boromir up there; he doubted that the human warrior had left that post all night. “The elves are advancing,” the Gondorian reported once Dwalin had reached him. “Three pronged approach; it looks like, not very inventive.”

 

The dwarf had to agree, it was not the smartest move on the elves’ part to try and storm the main battlements up front, it would buy them a bloodbath, but who knew what an enraged Elf King might order them to do? There was no time to be lost, and Dwalin did not waste any time on wondering, his orders for the troops were quick and decisive. When Thorin arrived the wall stood ready to face the storm. Dwarves, Men and Elven warriors, standing side by side, willing to defend Erebor from the advancing Elven Army. In the light of the waning moon they could see the Elves approach, contrary to other armies Elves fought in silence, their advance noiseless, no orders were heard either nor were there torches, only their eerie shadows gliding through the dark.

 

All too quickly they came into range. Dwalin raised his hand as signal. “Archers!” He barked the order that the archers and crossbowmen on the upper battlements were waiting for. The first move in this battle had to be theirs, and there could be no hesitation. Not wanting to be the one who knocked that first arrow may be a lovely sentiment but when under siege it was idiocy to waste the opportunity. The hiss of hundreds of bowstrings and crossbow snaps sounded like a fell wind as a wave of arrows and bolts descended on the enemy.

 

There was this one endlessly long moment of only a heartbeat before the arrows would reach their targets, but before any of them could hit their target a bright flash of light shone on the grounds between the armies and a wave of fire consumed the arrows. “What is this madness?” A very familiar and very angry voice echoed through the night. In the shine of one white light they saw the familiar figure of an old man with a long staff and huge hat.

 

“Gandalf,” Dwalin could swear to hear some measure of relief in Thorin’s voice. “Dwalin.,.” The warmaster understood at once what Thorin wished. “Hold your fire!” he barked for the archers, who would not dare to stop their fire, once the fight had begun and had the second barrage already on their strings.

 

The Elven Army too had stopped and Dwalin could see that there was one group of them moving towards the light. Thranduil and his guard.

 

“I need to go down there,” Thorin said firmly. “Dwalin, you are with me, bring Balin, Kili as well…”

 

“Thorin…” Dwalin knew discussing this was useless, but he did not have to like it. And he still did not trust the elves. He would bring a strong guard, people who would fight like wild wolves if Thorin was attacked.

 

ADL

 

They met on the field before the gates of Erebor in the bright light of Gandalf’s staff. The wizard was clearly enraged. “What madness is this?” he demanded for a second time. “That your people would go to war with each other?” His eyes fell on Elrohir, who stood with Thorin. “And that Elf would go to war with Elf again?”

 

“I came to demand the Whispy back from those who attacked my house,” Thranduil told Gandalf. “And to demand justice for those they killed in Mirkwood.”

 

Thorin crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You tried to kill me first, if I recall that correctly…” he grumbled.

 

Gandalf ignored both of them, his eyes quickly surveying Thranduil’s entourage and finding the pale black-haired figure standing close to him. “You are no Huirorn,” The grey wizard said, pointing the light of his staff on the man.

 

The pale white light touched the tree-spirit figure, the Huirorn stumbled backwards, and his form began to melt, the appearance fading away like a shadow falling off of him, revealing a man – an Easterling with tanned skin, the strong if lean body of a warrior and blazing violet eyes. “Your Master has fled his abode,” Gandalf said coldly. “And has dissolved into the shadows again, you are but the servant of a shadow.”

 

The Easterling leaped away from the shocked Elven Guards deftly, all appearance of weakness had fallen off of him, and if he felt fear it was not visible, hidden behind a fierce grin. “Well played, wizard,” he said, in a startling well sounding if deep voice. “Well played indeed, but never forget that Shadow may melt from your light only to assemble out of its reach.”

 

“Tungar-Sula…” Elrohir whispered, recognizing the very same opponent he had faced four hundred years ago, in Carn Dum. How was this possible? Could the shadow truly prolong the lives of its servants?

 

The Easterling laughed. “The name is Trakhaine,” he said. “It’s been a while, Elrohir. And you were better entertainment than your woodland friend here, cuddle him a little when I am gone, he is going to need it before the time of dying comes.”

 

Thranduil’s face had gone deathly pale when he came face to face with the Huirorn’s true form. “You… you were a servant of Dol Guldur…” He drew his blade. “And I trusted you like a fool…”

 

“You are a fool, Elf,” Trakhaine said, without any respect. “And a weak one at that. Too weak to be what you want to be and too cowardly to give up on the pretense of what you are not. Give that beast Azog my best.”

 

Thranduil lunged forward, intent on striking at the Easterling, but the man deftly dodged his attack, Malenior seeing his king in danger raced to assist and was effortlessly killed by the Easterling. The warrior laughed at Thranduil. “Get a better warmaster, Elf King, you will need it, when I come this way again it will be with an army.” Suddenly the form of the Easterling waned, changing into a black Hawk, flying up into the night skies.

 

“Archers!” Dwalin snapped, but Gandalf stopped him.

 

“No, let him go. His life is tied to oaths and things I will not dare mention openly. You could not truly kill him, nor should you waste your strength on that.”

 

“He said to greet Azog,” Thorin’s whole stance had shifted from calmly controlled to ready to fight. “Bard spoke of rumors of Orcs crossing the wilds… though how they crossed Mirkwood I do not know.”

 

Gandalf sighed; the wizard suddenly looked very tired. “I will not speculate on it, but you are running out of time. Azog’s army is not far away, I hurried to reach you in time. He is bringing all the Goblins and Orcs from the Misty Mountains, Warg riders… all he could muster. He has emptied the deeps of Moria and Mt. Gundabad to bolster his numbers.”

 

“We should retreat into the Mountain again, my King.” Dwalin suggested. “Let Azog get a bloody head trying to storm our walls.”

 

Thorin cast his warmaster a long sad glance. “Leaving the Elves to perish out here would be as bad a deed as the day they left us to the dragon.” He said grimly. “And I will not leave anyone to Azog and his ilk, not even Thranduil.” It cost Thorin all his strength to speak those words, he knew that this was the right thing to do, much as it hurt. “Dwalin… coordinate with the others, we need a plan quickly.”

 

Dwalin had no words to say how much he admired Thorin’s strength, it was a truly noble decision he had made here and one the woodland elves and their traitorous allies did not deserve. He turned to the shocked Elf King, who stood pale and like in trance. “He killed your warmaster, who is in command of your troops?”

 

There was no answer for a few tense moments, before a younger elf stepped to Thranduil’s side, gesturing the royal guard to take care of his father. “That would be me for now,” Legolas said calmly.

 

“Mahal help us,” Dwalin grumbled, he had seen the elf fight Elrohir and the boy had no experience whatsoever, that much had been painfully clear. “Lachanar! Get down here!” He called out back to the walls, before turning to the young elf. “Listen, Prince, I know you don’t like Lachanar, but you need someone to coordinate your troops, someone who knows them. So forget for this one day who he is, when all this is over you can forget he was ever there. For now I need you to work with him.”

 

Legolas met the dwarf’s eyes steadily. “I will be glad to have him,” he replied.

 

“Good,” Dwalin said, knowing their time was limited. “We have three main lines of battle, if we want to trap the Orcs between us and the mountain. Dale Heights, Raven Hill and Winter’s Howe.” He had to put a plan together quickly, something to deal with an Orc host far superior in numbers, and advancing on them all too swiftly. “Elrohir, I will need you, with your elves and the Dragonblooded on Dale Heights, Raven Hill is already with the Woodland Elves and Boromir – you take Bard’s men to Winter’s Howe, the rest is with me under the gates. If Azog is still Azog he will charge at Thorin and spring the trap.” It was a dangerous game to play and he would need to split up his best people, to keep control of the field.

 

ADL

 

The western hills were black with Orcs, their torches blazing against the still dark skies, dawn had not yet come and Thorin did not dare hope for it to slow down the Orcs. If Azog had been lured here by Dol Guldur, he may be driven by too much fear to let his fear of the sun affect him too much. A cold hand touched Thorin’s heart; it all seemed to come to full circle here and now. Again he stood at the gates of a dwarven Kingdom to battle the pale Orc. Only this time he did not stand alone and that might make all the difference. With him stood his sons, Dwalin, the dwarves led by Fálki. Belfionn and his Dragonblooded warriors had joined Elrohir on Dale Heights and for a moment Thorin had believed to spot a taller figure, maybe their leader, amongst them.

 

His eyes fell to Bilbo who stood with them. The Halfling’s face was pale, jaw set in a grim un-Hobbitlike expression. He gave the Hobbit a quick nod of encouragement, before his eyes returned to the advancing Orc host and there he saw him – one huge pale Orc astride a white Warg leading the army. Azog had come.

 

And the pale Orc saw him too, a loud shout rose from him as he pointed his mace ahead to where Thorin stood, and he spurred his warg on. The Orcs fell from marching into racing, rushing down at the dwarves by the gate of Erebor, completely ignoring the trap they were flooding into. But… Thorin could not believe how many there were. Even with all the fighters Elves, Men and Dwarves had brought to the battle, they still were outnumbered at least five to one.

 

The first clash of armies always was a sickening sound, the moment the first blades and armors, bodies and fighters made contact, an impact of destruction that left several dead within moments. It was a sound like crash, or the fierce crack of the ice in cold winter nights. Thorin hardly heard it this time, his blade being amongst those to first draw blood. One Orc fell beheaded, the next stabbed, Thorin ducked under the next attack, ramming his dagger into an Orc’s belly. A Warg snapped for his arm, Thorin coming about and ramming the blade deep into the wolf’s neck. It was a flood of Orcs rushing against them and the dwarven King fought with all the strength he had to weed out their numbers.

 

ADL

 

Boromir saw the Orcs take the bait, it was the first time ever he saw such stupidity on their part and he knew he was grateful that no Easterling or Haradrim did the thinking for them this time. It was a brave thing Thorin did down there, luring Azog in, but holding back was hard for Boromir. He could sense the tension in the men of Dale, they wanted to charge, but had to wait until the right moment for the trap to close behind the Orcs.

 

He could feel Fili and Kili down there with Thorin, their tension, and apprehension echoing up to him, along with an echo of shock when Azog appeared at the head of his army, all of it drowned out soon enough by the rush of battle.

 

“Fan out,” Boromir ordered. “Hagil, long left flank, we need to trap them. Bard, you have the archers.” They advanced from their position, closing the ring behind the Orcs, effectively trapping the Orc army between the others and the mountain.

 

When the first rain of arrows came down on the Orcs from behind a part of their ranks turned and rushed at them. There was next to no coordination in their attack, it was sheer numbers and brutish strength. Leading his men into the fray, Boromir’s blade began to deal out death.

 

ADL

 

Thorin could not tell when he had seen Azog, the day had come, a bleak grey autumn day without much light or sun. The fighting was fierce, the trapped Orcs having all but broken the Elven ranks on Raven Hill. Thorin had neither time nor strength to more than notice the situation, because the Orcs kept coming like a black flood. But this time he saw the speck of white amongst them as the white Warg charged at him. Widening his stance to gain a better stand, he gripped Orcrist with both hands. Back in the mountains he had underestimated the beast and he would not make the same mistake twice.

 

The Warg leaped into the attack, Thorin ducked, bringing Orcrist up to graze the beast’s flank. The warg landed stumbling but was pulled around at once for the next charge. This time Thorin did not evade, he stood and as the beast raced at him, he brought the blade down on the Warg’s mighty head, the skull breaking with a sickening crunch. The same moment he felt a powerful smash in his own side as he was tossed through the air by Azog’s mace, landing hard on the ground. He scrambled to get up before the pale Orc could reach him, but the Orc was slowed down by Fili blocking his path, Azog’s first hit smashing Fili’s left arm. The young dwarven warrior did not give ground, the sword in his right hand cutting deep into the pale Orc’s flank.

 

Thorin attacked again, bringing his full strength into each hit he landed, the mace swished Kili away from them, but the same time Fili cut deeply into the Orc’s knee. Azog stumbled forward. With one powerful jump Thorin leapt forward, Orcrist a silver deathly circle in the air as he beheaded Azog.

 

A fierce roar went through the Orc host, when they saw their leader fall and with all the might and anger of a wounded beast they charged at the hill of the King.

 

ADL

 

The Orcs turning towards the heart of the battle was not much of a reprieve and Lachanar knew it. Coordination of the Woodelves had been decent enough, but too many of them were reserves, the border banner was still holding out, they formed the core of their defense, the other troops from Mirkwood were too easily lost under the Orc blades.

 

He had shortened the line of their defense to hold the hill but things were not going well. “Legolas!” He had fought his way to the Prince, defending his wounded father. “Get your father off the field, leave the rest to us.”

 

“No!” Legolas shot another Orc and ducked under a further attack, Lachanar made swift work of the opponent. “I can’t leave, I am not coward.”

 

The former Captain-General was too busy fighting off several Orcs to continue the debate at once, cutting through several of them before he had some room to breathe. “You are your father’s only son, Prince Legolas, and he will need you. He is wounded and can’t fight any longer, so get him off this hill before he gets killed.”

 

Even in the middle of the fight Legolas noticed the way Lachanar addressed him, a clear sign that he did not count himself any more among Mirkwood Elves. Could he, Legolas, shame his house with another retreat from danger? He felt a hard, nearly brutal grip at his arm, Lachanar had grabbed him, the warrior’s scarred face was smeared with blood, he looked stern and exhausted. “Listen, Legolas, I was there when Oropher fell, and I was there when Amrir went… I do not wish to add another Silvan King to the list, no matter my own choices. Mirkwood will need you and your father to heal, to recover. He is severely injured; there is no shame in getting him out.”

 

With a nod, Legolas followed the older elf’s words and called for what was left of the Royal Guard to assist in retrieving his father.

 

Lachanar returned to fighting, with only the border banner still standing, the warriors who had contended with Dol Guldur for the past century, he did not hope to hold the hill for very long, but by Tulkas’ Eternal Wrath, he’d make the Orcs pay a dear price for it.

 

ADL

 

The field was breaking, Elrohir saw it. The elven warrior could not tell anymore how long they had fought, his armor bloody from the countless Orcs he had cut down. Had it not been for the Lord of the Dragonforge he doubted he could have held the field at all. The one handed warrior fought with such a skill and such an eye for tactics that Elrohir had followed his lead for most of the battle. Otherwise the heights of Dale would long have been overrun by the Orcs. But now things were grim. Ravenhill was getting slaughtered and Winter’s Howe fought with a determination and strength that Elrohir wondered how many of them would be left in the end. With Azog’s fall the Orcs had begun to charge the center and they were taking it. His eyes strayed between Raven Hill and the Gates of Erebor, both needed help and they had hardly enough to aid one.

 

“Elrohir, we need to clean Raven Hill before the Orcs can get their archers there,” How anyone could still be so controlled in the midst of the chaos was beyond the elven Prince. And he hardly knew how to address the warrior; of course he knew who this elf was. There was no second elf in history that had lost his right hand, or that fought like the very Lord of War himself. “What about the gates?” he asked back.

 

“I will take care of that. You take your troop, see what fighters you can free up at Raven Hill, and have them shower the Orcs with arrows. My people and I will support the gate.”

 

While Elrohir had been impressed with Dragonblooded’s fighting, he knew they numbered too few. “You won’t survive that.”

 

Belfionn freed his swords from an Orc corpse. “Then to death it is.” He said grimly. “Up boys! For one final dance with the black-veiled Lady.”

 

Elrohir did not say another word, they would follow their Lord to their certain doom and it was a loyalty and love freely given… speaking against it would be low. “A star above you.” He said as he turned to lead his elven warriors to Raven Hill. And behind him he heard the answer. “Die proud.”

 

ADL

 

Thorin collapsed to his knees when an axe hit him in the side; he stabbed the Orc into the belly, grabbing another Orc’s shield to pull himself up again. A shower of arrows came down on them, many cut out of the air by Kili’s sword. Thorin yanked Orcrist free and beheaded the next foe. Beside him Fili went down under the merciless blades of two Orcs. Thorin charged at them, not caring for wounds or pain, he decapitated both in one stroke, but Fili did not get up again. Standing above his wounded son, Thorin fought like he had never before in his life. No matter how many came, he hacked, stabbed, sliced at them, at his back he knew Kili, who was fighting with the same fierce rage. By the time their strength began to run out, the Orcs were stumbling over piles of corpses around the three. From the corner of his eye Thorin saw the archers, but it was too late, a barrage of arrows fired at short range hit them, piercing their armor. A wave of pain washed over him and he knew no more.

 

Dwalin saw them fall, he had been battling his way up the hill to reach them, but he was too late, the arrows taking Thorin and Kili down moments before he could get there. The first Orc raised his blade to hack them to pieces was met with one blow of the hammer. Dwalin swung the weapon full force, smashing several of them out of range. More came, eager to finish what they had started, to hack the wounded to pieces, howling hate and vengeance. But none of them made it close, Dwalin fought like a wounded wild bear to keep them off Thorin and the boys. His Kings may just have fallen but the warmaster was still standing, the Orcs would not get them as long as he drew breath and Stormcaller sang in his hands.

 

Bilbo ducked under another Orc kick, his sword impaling the brute warrior’s knee and a hit of Dwalin’s hammer finished him off. The small Halfling still stood with Dwalin where Thorin, Fili and Kili lay in their own blood. The horrors and the fear surrounding him had faded into a wild, determined will to fight and to not let his friends down. _This is the face of the enemy_ Boromir had told him in the deeps under the mountains, and while it still felt ridiculous and absolutely impossible that a great King like Thorin Oakenshield would need or want him, Bilbo Baggins formerly of Bag-End, to defend him, he’d still not retreat one step as long as he could fight.

 

Another Orc stumbled forward, hit by Stormcaller’s spiked shaft, Bilbo stabbed the Orc right in the chest when he came down too close. His naked feet felt the blood and mud, as well as the steel and bloody armor pieces, even the cold bodies of Orcs he was standing on. But he hardly registered them, his heart with the friends who lay behind him injured, maybe dead, maybe dying. How many more Orcs were there? They had to run out of fresh troops eventually, hadn’t they?

 

ADL

 

Belfionn closed ranks with his Dragonblooded brothers, he knew that breaking the Orc ring at the gate would take most of them, but he did not shy away from it. “No holding back anymore, boys,” he told his warriors. “Go all out, let them see the dragonblood.” It would extract a price even from those who might not die in the battle, but there was no other way. They advanced and he saw a larger figure to his side, a slender elven warrior in a familiar dark armor. Automatically Belfionn changed his blade into his other hand, their Lord fought left handed and it would be easier to cover him that way. There was nothing more than a short glance between them, a silent recognition, words were unnecessary, Belfionn had neither doubts nor fears left. This was the one who had taken him in, raised and trained him; given him the strength to become the warrior he was now… and he’d gladly follow him to the end of the world if necessary.

 

They reached the ranks of the Orc host at the center, breaking into their formation. The Lord of the Dragon Forge fought with a speed and strength like none other, his blade cutting away the orcs like a scythe would cut away blades of grass. Belfionn had to push hard to keep up, to cover his right flank properly. The dwarven warrior slowly let go of the tight control he had been taught, beginning to see the orcs like shades, seeing where they would be before they reached that spot, his own movements speeding up as he began to act on what he saw, being stronger, faster and always a heartbeat ahead of them. The darkness began to uncoil inside him, as the rage of the dragonblood seeped into his mind.

 

He heard the fierce howl of one of the others, a deep animalistic shout as one of their number lost control, going feral; the dwarf threw himself at the Orcs, ripping them apart with his bare hands. Belfionn knew this was only the first, they would all follow eventually, he did not care anymore and fought on, drawing on all the blood had given them, the speed, the foresight, the rage… they would be a force of sheer destruction.

 

ADL

 

Boromir could see what the fighters from Dale Heights were trying to do, it was exactly the right thing, the Orcs had formed a center at the gates of Erebor and smashing that would hopefully fracture the battle. But they were too few. He was well aware how exhausted the men of Dale were, this was the hardest battle of their lives and it was from over. “Hagil! Close ranks,” he ordered. “Bard – take the other flank,” He knew he was pushing them well beyond their limit, but it was this or certain death.

 

The bowman quickly sent the remaining archers, towards Raven Hill where they could make a difference. He then closed ranks with Hagil and Aiken who had already gotten some order into the battered ranks of men. “You have done that before,” Hagil observed, towards Boromir, he could tell an experienced captain when he saw one.

 

“Too often,” Boromir replied, glad for the old mercenary, who brought years of experience to the field. A part of him was in pain, he could feel Kili’s and Fili’s wounds, had felt when they had been taken down and now he felt their life seep away, slowly fading out like candles in the night. He tried to hold onto them and their pain, trying to give them whatever strength he could share but he did not know if it would enough.

 

They charged at the orcs from the other side, who had turned and presented a closed front to them. Their clash was fierce, Boromir saw Bard being the first to break into the ranks, the greatsword in his hands a Harbinger of death. They pushed through the Orc ranks, leaving a trail of death behind them.

 

Belfionn saw the army of men breaking the Orc circle at the other end; their two leaders were good, maybe even good enough to help turn the battle around. Pain burned brightly in the dwarf, when he heard the feral shrieks of his brethren as one after the other was overwhelmed by the blood; in their craze they even made a deeper dent into the orc numbers, rushing to death with a wild will that carried them far. Belfionn too felt the madness encroach, he still held it at bay, but it got harder and harder. He saw two Orcs move at once, their pale forms ahead of their actual attack, charging forward he killed one, shielding his Lord against the attack of the other. The blade slipped through the cracks in his armor and with a searing pain Belfionn fell to his knees.

 

Elrohir saw the Orc formation falter, they were splintering! Raven Hill was back in Elven hands, but their losses were fierce. “Lachanar! Let’s finish this.” He called out, seeing that the Woodelves had found some coordination again. Mercy of the Valar, Elrohir had always thought that the stories about the last alliance and the Woodelves were exaggerated. At least Lachanar knew his task and had held the core of their fighters together. When the elves moved on the splintering Orc center they heard a roar, a wild, fierce roar coming from the west. Looking up Elrohir saw a huge bear, followed by others of his kind on the ridge. And behind them in the sky appeared a flight of eagles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Woodelves “weak” performance in battle is partially based on the accounts on Oropher’s and Amdír’s performance in the Last Alliance, as it can be found in the Unfinished Tales. 
> 
> This chapter comes with lots of thanks to the amazing Harrylee94 who helped me write some of the more emotional bits and discussed a lot of the battle with me. I can only recommend you check out her stories as well.


	25. The Price of Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am nearly afraid to post this. Havin Rus talk... I am feeling like I will get kicked by the all the avid Silmarillion fans here.

The world suddenly began to spin before Boromir’s eyes and a fierce jab of pain erupted in his chest, he knelt so as not to collapse entirely. A new night had fallen on the field outside Erebor and the battle was won, but the search for wounded continued into the night. Like all the others still able to stand he had helped with that. But now he felt an exhausting drain on his strength. “Kili… Fili…” he could feel them weakening further.

 

“Boromir!” Bard squatted down beside him. “We better get you to a healer; you look ready to fall over.” The bowman observed, worried.

 

“I am not injured,” Boromir whispered, it was really only scratches and bruises, the black chainmail had held against all the attacks without breaking or letting a blade through. “I need to find Kili and Fili…”

 

“The two Princes?” Bard asked. “Dwalin brought them to the elven healers, after the shapeshifter got King Thorin there. Why?”

 

“They are fading, I can feel their wounds… life draining from them.” Boromir steadied his breathing, trying to hold onto their bond tightly, letting them draw on his strength.

 

“You can… _feel_ their wounds?” Bard had seen Dwalin when he had carried Prince Kili off the field, and the boy had barely been alive. “Light… and you are still standing?!” He could hardly believe it, feeling something like that on top of his own wounds and exhaustion, Boromir should have collapsed long ago.

 

The Gondorian pushed himself back to his feet, standing only a little shakily. “What choice do I have?” he replied. “They need me strong, now.”

 

Bard rose, grasping Boromir’s arm to support him as they walked. “I will get you there,” he said. “Don’t give up just yet, the Elves have a reputation as great healers.”

 

They walked slowly, Boromir feeling further surges of nausea as they went. He was grateful for Bard’s help, as it allowed him to get to the postern the dwarves had opened to allow the wounded be brought into their fortress. Inside the dark hallway, they were approached by Aelin. “Another wounded, Bard?” the elf asked, like most of his people he had been helping with the wounded.

 

“No, not wounded.” Boromir managed to stand on his own for the moment. “Aelin… what about Kili and Fili, Thorin?”

 

The Noldor shook his head. “Elrohir is still working on Thorin, he says the King might make it. The Princes… not so much… we did what we could but the wounds are too severe.”

 

A lance of pain shot through Boromir’s body and his arm, he nearly fell but Aelin caught him. The elf’s eyes widened when his hands touched Boromir’s arm. “Sweet Valar! You are linked to them… Bard, leave him here and take care of whatever tasks he still had.”

 

The Bowman frowned at those words. “Will he be alright?” he insisted. “He said he could feel their wounds.”

 

“I know.” Aelin replied. “and no, Bard, he will not be well. I do not know how this could happen… it was never meant for mortals to use… but if the Princes die, so will he.” The Noldor did not take time for further explanations but led Boromir to a small barren room. Kili and Fili had been bedded on blankets on the floor, their wounds had been dressed and treated, but the brothers were breathing shallowly, drifting slowly closer to the darkness from whence there was no return. Aelin guided Boromir to kneel down beside them; he could sense the bond that linked those three. “How… how could this happen?” he asked. “That spell…”

 

“Unimportant,” Boromir pushed the words out. “No time for that. Do any of your people have something like White Ithal Nuts? Stonefork Root?”

 

Aelin looked at him without understanding. “The Berserker draught? Boromir, even if our kind were to use such means, it could not help these boys.”

 

“Not them… but it could help me over the weakness, so they can draw more strength from me,” Boromir told him, now that he was close to both brothers the drain was not quite as bad, like it was easier to share what strength he had left. Gently he touched their arms, just enough to make it even easier for the bond to work.

 

“Nothing, no draught or spell could give you the strength to do that,” Aelin said softly. “Boromir… how far would you go to save them?”

 

“As far as necessary,” Boromir closed his eyes, focusing on the bond, it had been part of his life for twenty years, he had learned a lot on how to work with it during that time and he would not give up on them.

 

The Noldor warrior could see the determination in the human fighter, and he had to admire the sheer determination in the man. Aelin had been there when that spell had come into existence, one of seven immortal elves who had linked their strength and lives to safe one warrior… to save a King… but this went beyond it. Men did not have the skill to extricate themselves from such a link again or survive the drain of strength, for them to dare do this was to burn out what life they had quickly. He rose, leaving Boromir alone with the two dying dwarves, to find Caredhil outside with the other wounded. “Caredhil,” he approached the younger warrior who had become something of a friend as well. “I need your help.”

 

“What is it, Aelin?” Caredhil asked at once. “Does Elrohir need something for Thorin?”

 

“No, this is about Thorin’s sons… I dare not leave them for long at this moment.” Aelin wished he could go and do this errand himself, but he could not, not with what Boromir was trying to do. “The Lord of the Dragon forge, can you please find him for me?” he asked, having recognized the Noldor Prince the moment he had first seen him on the field. “Please, find him and tell him that Aralaimé begs his indulgence on a matter of the _Tealan Kal_ , and asks him to come here, three lives may depend on it… or rather two, if I am reading the matter correctly.”

 

Caredhil understood only half of what was asked, but he got the maybe most important part. He nodded and hurried outside to the field, to do as Aelin had asked.

 

ADL

 

The one handed warrior had been searching the battlefield, knowing what he would find. He had seen the young dragonblooded burn out, succumbing to the madness of the blood. Most of them he had found dead, a few dying, not yet gone from this world. For those few that he found still breathing he could do nothing, except to be with them in their final moments, praying that their creator would take mercy on them. When he had taken them in a short century ago, it had not been an act of mercy entirely, maybe one of obligation, maybe even in respect to the past too.

 

He had seen the different faces of Aule’s chosen children during his long life, he had seen their stubbornness, their honor, their fierce bravery to stand even in the face of a dragon… and he had seen their greed and their presumptions to raise their hands against an elven kingdom they should not have dared to touch.

 

It had seemed a bitter irony that it would be them who had found him after his fall, one of theirs to risk his life to retrieve him from the chasm of fire and nurse him back to health. The people of the Reach may have known who he was but they had not cared. For long ages they had given him refuge deep in the peak of Erebor, shielding him from a world that believed him perished. He in turn had aided them against the Frostwyrms and the drakes that would come down from the Withered Heath and plague their hidden homeland. The Dragon Forge becoming his home and slowly becoming a legend to the outside world, a legend guarded by the people of the Reach. They had respected his wish to be alone, to not live amongst their kin, only a few of them daring and curious to try and befriend him. Some he had taught, some he had chased away, and in time he had come to appreciate the little company they would provide. Until Skar… the blind young skald had brought a gift to his life that he had thought long lost, the music of his harp.

 

A pained cough interrupted his thoughts; he had come back to the bloody hill where the final fight had taken place. A wounded warrior had freed himself of the orc corpses lying atop of him. “Fion!” He recognized the dwarf at once; he had not believed he would find his young friend alive, not with the way the brave warrior had gone down.

 

“Rú…” Belfionn’s voice was rough; he had trouble speaking at all.

 

The name brought a smile to his face; it was a short version of the days when the dwarfling had not been able to pronounce Russandol properly. The elf knelt down beside the wounded fighter, for the first time taking off the helm that had obscured his face, revealing a proud and noble face framed by dark auburn locks. “No… don’t try to speak, conserve your strength,” He found Fion’s eyes clear, no sign of madness in them; he had not been taken by the blood. Quickly he helped Fion to sit up; the dwarf had yanked out the blade that had hit him, pressing one hand on the bleeding wound.

 

“So much worry… doesn’t become you, Rú,” Fion’s voice steadied a little. “Tell me that the blood will heal me and to stop being weak… might get me back to my feet.” There was honest affection in his words, and the grim will to pull through.

 

“You won’t walk anywhere,” Russandol said a bit more sternly. “I will bring you to a healer. You must not rely on the dragonblood to heal you this time, not with getting so close to being overwhelmed.”

 

“Couldn’t let that happen. I made a promise to my father when he died…” Fion told him.

 

He remembered the promise, Skar had died not ten year after the dragon had come, and the promise he had asked his son for, had been touching but Fion had been too young to dedicate himself like that, even as he had kept to it ever since.

 

“My Lord?” They were interrupted by an elf approaching them.

 

Russandol acknowledged the elf with a glance. “Help me carry him, he needs to go to the healers,” he said, it was not quite an order but a request that would be heeded.

 

“My Lord,” the elf began again. “Aralaimé asked I find you, he begs your indulgence on a matter of the _Tealan Kal_ , and…”

 

He held the younger elf’s eyes with a cool gaze until he stopped speaking. “I have a wounded warrior here and you will assist me to bring him to the healers. Once there, I may find Aralaimé.”

 

ADL

 

Dwalin pointed another group of wounded to be brought down to the mountain. The field was slowly clearing; the count of wounded, dead and dying accumulating to whatever number it would be at the end of the day. The warmaster was exhausted, physically and emotionally but he could not break down and rest. A warmaster kept things going when the battle was over. His heart was heavy while he saw to the troops. Thorin, severely wounded, Kili and Fili… near death, it was these thoughts that weighed more heavily on him than anything else. “Dwalin,” Bofur approached him, the miner looked as tired and exhausted as Dwalin felt and there were traces of red rims around his eyes.

 

“Bofur,” Dwalin approached him. “have you seen a healer yet?”

 

The miner shook his head. “I am not injured, Dwalin, and Bombur… he won’t be needing a healer anymore.”

 

The expression in Bofur’s eyes reminded Dwalin so vividly of the day on the bloodfields by the gates of Moria, the many dead, beyond counting. He had not allowed himself to cry then, and he could not here either. Not yet. Mahal knew the pain would be there in days to come. “I am sorry, Bofur,” he said. “Mahal receive him gently.”

 

Bofur shook his head, and looked at Dwalin with such a heartbreaking sadness. “Dwalin, you need to go to the seventh hall… Balin…” He did not manage to say it fully, but the warmaster understood what had remained unspoken.

 

Balin… an iron clamp grasped his heart, his brother… wise, compassionate Balin. He bit his lip, forcing himself to be steady, to be calm. “I have to see to the troops, Bofur, I… I will see Balin soon.”

 

“No,” Bofur said firmly. “The search is well in hand, Dwalin. Bard and that mercenary know what they are doing. Go and see Balin, go now. You’d never forgive yourself if you did not.”

 

Dwalin followed Bofur back to the mountain, the halls were restless, anyone who knew his way around healing was treating the wounded. Women from Dale, elves, dwarves from the Reach, all trying not to let any more fighters die before the night was out. As they passed through the halls Dwalin saw Boromir with Fili and Kili and a small spark of hope rose within him, maybe… just maybe the Princes could be saved.

 

He found Balin resting on a blanket in a less noisy hallway, Dwalin had seen many grievously wounded fighters in his life and he had no doubts that Balin’s wounds were lethal. While they were now treated and bandaged, he could tell that several orc spears must have nailed his brother down in the end. Kneeling down beside him, he gently touched his forehead. Balin’s eyes fluttered open. “Brother,” he rasped. “You came…. Thorin?”

 

“He will make it, that elf Elrohir is a decent healer and says Thorin will live,” Dwalin sounded more reassured than he was.

 

“Good… I feared for him…” Balin coughed. “The Princes?”

 

“Stop fretting brother,” Dwalin grumbled. “You need to pull it together, Bal, someone has to talk sense in this mountain… and you can’t ask me to do that.”

 

There was a pained smile on Balin’s old face. “You have more sense than you think, brother, if you were only to try and use your wits now and then.” He grasped Dwalin’s hand. “Brother… they will need you, in days to come. I am worried about Dáin… he has been plotting too much and… they will need your strength. Thorin and the boys…”

 

“Do not worry, Balin,” Dwalin whispered. “I will protect them as long as I live, and I will keep an eye on the boys, you’d never forgive me if they came to harm.”

 

“I will hold you to that, brother.” Balin’s hands closed around Dwalin’s mighty arm and the end came swiftly.

 

ADL

 

“Bofur?” The pale haired elf’s words startled the miner as he left Dwalin to share his last moments with his brother in private. The miner tried to remember what elf this was, his hair had the color of sea-foam, and he had seen him before amongst Elrohir’s riders, but had his doubts he had ever heard the name.

 

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, tired as Bofur was, as much as he wanted to weep for his brother, there were others who still needed help. When a mine collapsed you did not cry for your friends, but you kept digging through the rubble until the last body was found.

 

“I was told that you were the cousin of Bifur?” The elf said. “Glóin pointed me to you. My name is Ivordaer.”

 

“Bifur…” Bofur’s heart nearly stood still. “Don’t say he died as well…”

 

Ivordae smiled gently, reassuringly. “No, he was wounded severely, but he will recover. I thought you might wish to see him, even while he is asleep. The surgery was not easy, but under the circumstances… and he will be fine.”

 

Dazed Bofur followed Ivordaer to another place, where he saw Bifur rest and sleep comfortably. Several bandages covered his body and there was one covering his head. Bofur’s eyes widened. “The axe… you removed it?” He asked, no healer had ever dared try, fearing it would kill Bifur. But then… they never had had the means to see a very good healer, let alone an elven one.

 

“Bifur suffered another head injury, Bofur,” Ivordaer explained. “It had caused the axe to move… forcing me to risk the surgery right here. He will need weeks to recover and heal, but he will live. I gave him a strong dose of dreambane against the pain; before I did he was awake and coherent, although I do not speak ancient dwarven beyond very few words.”

 

Bofur smiled. “Don’t worry about that, he has not been speaking anything else, since the axe got him.” In the midst of the pain and the sadness he felt a spark of hope rise inside him. Wherever Bombur might be now, he would smile at them, happy to hear that Bifur had a chance to heal and maybe recover from the damage done to him so long ago.

 

ADL

 

Boromir looked up, when he saw movement in the door, he was not sure how much the bond was helping, but Fili and Kili were still breathing, neither of them having yet passed into the night. He saw another elf walk in, having brought another wounded dwarf from the Reach, who exclaimed Fili’s name, as he was set down by the wall.

 

“Aelin said you might now how to help,” Boromir had to focus on speaking, he was tired, the minutes seemed to tick by like hours formed of lead.

 

The redheaded elf squatted down beside him, his hand lightly touching his arm. “I will not ask how this spell came to you,” he said firmly. “It was never meant for mortals to use and even with all your strength you cannot keep them in this world long enough for their bodies to heal to a point that would allow them to recover.”

 

Boromir had heard that speech before, and Aelin had indicated there was more. “Aelin said there might be some other way, if you know…” Another surge of exhaustion went through him, he gasped, forcing his breathing back to the same invariable pattern as before.

 

The elf exchanged a glance with Aelin, who was quickly taking care of the dwarf’s injuries, then he looked back at Boromir. “Would you risk your life for them? Would you accept death as the consequence?” he asked.

 

There was a way! The thought alone gave Boromir the strength to break out of the leaden tiredness. “Yes,” he replied firmly. “I do not know who you are, but if you know of a way, of any way, tell me. If it takes my life… but what about the bond?” If he died the broken bond would kill them anyway.

 

“The bond can be reversed, dissolved,” Russandol explained. “The process is draining, even for my kind. For you it is going to be lethal. All your strength, your very life would be flooding into them, with the bond dissolving gently in the process. They would live and take no harm but you would die, this was never meant…”

 

“…for mortals, I understood that the first time. What do I need to do?” Boromir asked, trying to not be impatient with the elf.

 

“Are you certain you want to do this? Once begun no one can save you.” Russandol asked one last time. Men feared death, more than anything else and they were not very brave in facing their fears.

 

“Everything dies,” Boromir told him. “We all are but candles before the night, it does not matter how long we burn, if our flame burns brightly. Tell me what to do.”

 

Russandol’s eyes went back to Fion, who sat pale by the wall, the wound may be bandaged but the dwarf was a long way from healing or recovering. Their eyes met and he saw Fion’s pleading gaze. One of the boys here was his cousin, son of Skar’s brother. “Aelin, come here,” Russandol made his decision.

 

The warrior joined him only a moment later. “My Lord?”

 

“The bonds need reversing, talk Boromir through it, no need for secrecy,” there were many secrets in this spell and Aelin would not have dared to pass them on without permission. “I will take care of Fion.” He cast the warrior a glance that told him not to question, and not even think to ponder.

 

“Of course.” Aelin replied. “Boromir, stay where you are, between them, you will need to keep contact with them for most of this.” The darkhaired elf settled opposite of the human warrior. “Can you sense them in the link?”

 

“Aye,” Boromir confirmed the question. “They are both there, weakening but alive.”

 

“Good,” Aelin replied, wondering if this would work the same way for them as it would for Elves. “Try to visualize the bond, to see them both inside the link you share.”

 

Boromir closed his eyes, directing his focus inwardly to the bond. “Two flames,” he spoke softly. “Fili, cold and pale and Kili… brightly golden…”

 

“Very good,” Aelin said, this could work; the warrior had a measure of control over the bond, random and rough control but still control of sorts. “Now… reach for your own flame and push it towards them, pour all that you are, your life, your light into the bond and towards them,”

 

Boromir did as Aelin told him, surprised that he could reach for his own flame inside the bond and push it towards the others, it hurt… it hurt like nothing he had ever felt, like a knife twisting inside him, a fire gnawing at his insides. The pain surged, like his own flame was trying to prevent him from what he was doing but he did not let go, he could see how the silver and the golden flames at the other end of the bond became brighter and stronger, it was working.

 

From afar he could hear Aelin’s voice, or maybe it was his own, speaking the words to reverse the bond, etching them into his soul as he went.

 

From the path you chose to tread,

to the gateway mortals dread,

through a blaze so angry red,

to the night where you must die,

under the cold winter sky,

hear the ones you loved pass by,

in the dawn you will note wake,

to the chains you now must break,

releasing them for others' sake.

Pass the door so cold and clear,

to the shadow that draws near,

through the night so many fear.

Under the failing sky,

in this hour you must die.

 

His body was weakening; he could not keep on his knees much longer, sinking down beside them, Boromir held onto the hands of the brothers, while his strength flooded into them. It was still painful but easier, he did not need to force it anymore, it just happened, like a floodgate opened. He could feel them getting stronger even as the bond began to wane, to slowly fade out of existence.

 

He could see Kili come awake, and the suddenly stronger grip on his left hand told him that Fili too was awake, no longer unconscious. It truly did work! Seeing Kili sit up Boromir smiled. Strangely he thought of his father’s words that the magics of the elder times were a dangerous and wondrous thing, back then he had not understood; now he did. He had been right; the magic of the elder ages could achieve wonderful things.

 

He saw Kili’s lips move but could not hear him, the bond was fading further and Boromir could not speak any more. He focused on what was left of the bond, telling Kili not to mourn, not to grieve. He had done what he came here to do, breaking the curse; helping to save Kili’s family… he had gotten that far, changing the fate of a family. This was victory, if he had ever seen one and he was happy. There was no need for grief or tears.

 

The bond winked out of existence, Boromir gasped, shivering. In twenty years he had gotten so used to the bond, the comforting closeness of his brothers, without it he felt a loneliness he had not experienced in so long. But it passed, the room darkened more and more, fading away. He still could see Kili’s face but it too faded into the night, for a moment it changed and he saw the other Kili, his comrade, his brother… his King. Boromir smiled and then the darkness came.

 

ADL

 

He stood alone in the endless darkness, he had been here before, only for forbidden moments during which the spell had been worked. This time it was different but Boromir did not fear the guardian warrior, he had long understood that it was by his mercy that men were allowed to leave this world behind. When he made a step into the darkness, it shifted around him, consumed by a bright red light. Warmth surrounded him as he found himself at the gate of a mighty forge. A warm spark soared in his heart, his friends had sometimes claimed that he was one of them and would join them in this place one day… but knowing it was true gave him a wondrous feeling of homecoming.

 

Only now he saw the two figures beside the fire, one the guardian warrior the other the great smith, both looking at him. Boromir raised his chin, knowing it was time to be judged, he approached them steadily, without fear. They knew his path and his choices, he had no regrets.

 

For a time beyond reckoning they just stood, then the great smith raised his hand pointing to both sides of the forge. Following the hand’s gesture with eyes Boromir perceived two gateways, one leading towards a grand hall, where he could hear music and laughter, the other leading into darkness. There were no words but suddenly he understood the choice he was given, the mercy he was being granted. He wanted to kneel and thank them for their gift, but he could not move. He knew what the doors were, if he went to the hall, he would be allowed to rest, to be at peace and wait for his friends when they left the world of the living and came home. The other door, the gate into the darkness would mean for his soul to go on, to be born again, to continue the journey. It was the chance to go on, to be born again in the place where he had been born originally and the burden to having to do it all over again, the pain, the suffering, the battles, the losses.

 

It would mean to face the shadow again, to fight again, fight harder than ever before, not knowing what he knew now but still changed by the path he had travelled. Boromir cast a long glance at the gate to the hall, no, he was not yet so tired that he wished for the eternal rest, for the place where there was neither pain nor darkness. He still could stand and fight; he still had strength to give to the eternal battle. He bowed deeply to his silent judges, then turned towards the door into the darkness. When he walked past the guardian warrior, he saw a commanding gesture making him turn to face the silent guardian again. The silent one raised his hand in a gesture of blessing, before releasing him to go. Boromir went on, towards the dark portal into the night and he saw a sparkle on the ground, under his feet he saw a light, shaped like a whirling layered star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrylee94 was her marvelous self again, helping and inspiring me. I suggest you check out her profile for her own amazing stories :D


	26. Epilogue: The long goodbye

The searing smoke stung Thorin’s eyes, he blinked several times but could not prevent his eyes from watering, nor did he want to. A dozen pyres were ablaze before the gates of Erebor, the only funeral that could be given for the many fallen in the battle. It went against all in Thorin to do so, they had had burned the dead in Azanulbizar because they had neither had the time nor the strength to bury them properly, but here… he felt they should do better by those who gave their lives protecting the Mountain. He had quickly learned that the dwarves of the Reach had little in terms of burial rituals at all, they did not maintain crypts nor cairns, and Bard had assured him that among men the pyre was the way the Kings of Old had been sent from this world. Only the Woodelves had decided to bury their dead elsewhere and without participating in the rites of others, of Elrohir’s riders seven had fallen, their bodies had been placed on a smaller pyre together, their last journey as the comrades they had been in their long lives.

 

Thorin stood silently, seeing the fires blaze to the skies, his hand closed on the head of his axe. He had chosen to bring the weapon as it allowed him to lean on it, for he could hardly stand on his own two feet. But he had scoffed away any suggestion of sitting during the ceremony, those warriors deserved being honored and he would honor their sacrifice.

 

With Thorin stood Fili and Kili, both fully healed and strong, while still pale and grieved. With Thorin’s throat still not recovered from the cut of an orc blade, it had fallen to Kili to speak when the pyres were lit and Thorin had been ready to take on the task anyway, no matter what the healers said, seeing how much pain Kili already bore. But Kili had not disappointed him, standing before the pyres he had spoken to the armies and people assembled and spoken well, thanking the dwarves of the Reach that had fallen for keeping strength and faith under the dragon’s reign, the warriors of Dale for keeping their old friendship no matter what and the Elves for standing with them through the storm, his words had been solemn, heartfelt and somehow they did not convey loss but a vision of what it had all been for.

 

They pyres finally burned low as the sun began to set. Thorin bowed his head, to the flames giving his goodbye and silent thanks to the many who had departed. The ceremonies over, many of those who had come said their personal goodbyes as well.

 

Two figures stood silently by one of the pyres, watching the flames die down leaving nothing of their comrades, of the dragon’s bloody legacy. Fion wished he had yet the words to express his feelings in a proper dirge, but his soul could not find them, not yet. Maybe it was the miracle of his own surviving that he first had to understand because he could express the sadness for those gone home. He had known what the price giving in to the blood would extract from them, that it was one final fight, one battle to the death. That he should survive them all was something he had yet to fully grasp, or why Russandol’s choice had been to save him above any other. He looked up to the tall warrior beside him, Russandol had been as silent as him while the pyre burned. Maybe for him too this was no time for words, maybe they both knew that there were none.

 

“My Lord?” he asked, softly, respectfully, not sure whether Rú would wish to stay any longer.

 

The elf turned his head, intense eyes studying Fion. “There will not be a Lord of the Dragon Forge any longer, Fion,” Russandol said.

 

“You wish to leave?” Fion honestly was surprised, maybe because the Lord of the Dragon Forge had been so long in the peak of Erebor that people would say he had been there forever, untrue though that might be. It might seem inappropriate to others that would speak of this, here by the pyre but Fion knew it was right. The spirits of the others were still close; they would hear and know that those who lived were going on.

 

“Your people were generous, Fion,” Russandol said, not quite truly speaking to Fion. “They found me when I felt my fea flee Arda’s shores and they permitted me to stay and heal, offered me a home in many long years.” He had not considered ever leaving the peak, nor truly considered where his path might lead, for a long time the loneliness and the silence had been what he needed to heal. The world he had left behind had been the world of the waning first age, at the dawn of the second, now that he stood here in the world again; the third age was already seeing the white of time’s winter. Arda’s people had changed, Arda herself had changed, but there was still darkness in the world and still… still there was the vast wide expanse of this wild free world that had sung to him so long ago. Maybe time had healed the exhaustion of his fea, maybe he had simply forgotten what it had felt like, but he could again look at this world and wonder what may lie beyond the mighty ridge of mountains, or what had become of this vast ancient land. “I had a brother once,” he said to the flames, burning down. “We were separated when I fell into the chasm… but my heart tells me he still walks these shores.”

 

“You wish to find him,” Fion observed, his eyes lighting up. “You may need someone to have your back, Rú.”

 

Russandol looked at the dwarf by his side, sensing a strange echo from him. Healing Fion had been a decision made in the spur of the moment, but not one he would ever regret. “What of your people?” he asked. “Now, with the new King being your Uncle through marriage you have a chance to go home, to live amongst them once more. If this is about the promise you made to Skar…”

 

“No, it is about a promise I made to a friend,” Fion felt a little daring to claim that openly, but he was stubborn enough not to let it go. “I… I am happy that I met Fili, to know that I have a cousin, but… I could never be quite at home with them.” His home had been the Dragon Forge, and he had wished for none other, he’d follow Rú as long as he would permit it.

 

ADL

 

The crypt was deep under the Earth, near the heart of the mountain, the dwarves had buried their dead in various parts of the deeps, but this was the place where their kings, their nobles and their heroes rested. And now also Balin. Thorin had passionately opposed to see Balin’s body given to the pyres, or that of Bombur and Boromir. He would not see them burned, not after what they had been through with him.

 

Eventually he had decided for an extra crypt, near the old royal crypts. On the one side all those the dragon had taken would be laid to rest and on the other side those would sleep who had returned to fight the dragon. Thorin felt it fitting that he and the company should find rest in the same place when the time came. He had seen some debate out of Kili on the issue; his son felt that Boromir would not wish to be placed to rest where he could see neither stars nor sky. But Thorin had thought better of that, while he had not known the brave warrior as well as he would have liked, he had seen the amazement in Boromir’s eyes when he had first entered Erebor, the fascination for the sprawling fortress city. Born to the surface and wide lands, this warrior of men had had a heart strong and brave enough to see the wonders of the deep.

 

It was at night when they held the funeral for their three companions, while it was a smaller ceremony, more private, there was still a number of people with them. The company of course, along with some of the Elves, Elrohir and Aelin paying their respects to Thorin’s comrades, Bard with some of his people. Thorin had been surprised to see Bard here, but was glad that the son of Dale had come.

 

Balin’s tomb was made of the white stone found on the northern reaches of the Mountain, and starkly unadorned for now, except for the inscription. Cursing his own weakness, Thorin had asked Fili to put the inscription there; he himself would do the ornaments at a later time, to honor the old dwarf, who had been a friend, councilor and loyal comrade, whom he keenly missed.

 

Balin, Son of Fundin

 

Councilor, Friend and Comrade

 

And the wisest of us all

 

He had no other words in his heart to say, Balin had deserved better than to die on the doorstep of his long lost home. _A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor_. Balin had said to him, and after having fallen so deep under the spell of the gold, Thorin saw the wisdom in the old dwarf’s words. He would always remember the wise friend and heed his council in his heart.

 

Bombur’s grave was made from dark mountain stone, a flat cairn in Blacklock tradition, that later would hold the story of Bombur’s life written in runes on the sides. Glóin had asked Bofur to be allowed to place the inscription there, a surprisingly gentle gesture from their peppery comrade, and one Bofur had accepted gracefully. Thorin knew the miner more than before felt out of place in this moment. He went to Bofur, to find some more personal words for the grieving brother.

 

Boromir’s grave had presented them with all kinds of questions; none of them had known where Boromir had come from nor his true family, no names of a father or clan, nothing else either. To Thorin’s surprise it had been Kili and Dwalin who had made those decisions, in an understanding that suggested they knew more of their human comrade’s history. The tomb was made from white stone as well, and there was no doubt that the ornamentation would be Kili’s own work. For now there was only the inscription and one ornament.

 

Boromir

 

Brother, Friend and Protector

 

Beneath that Kili had carved the dragonbane seal. Thorin had watched him and watched him now during the ceremony. Kili was pale but there were no tears in his eyes, even as they shone with pain. It worried Thorin to see it, he could understand fierce grief, the grim stormy grief Dwalin had for his brother, or the tears Bofur would shed for Bombur, but Kili’s tearless agony was beyond him. He saw Fili gently hug his brother, both finding strength in each other as they had done so often before.

 

Thorin silently looked at the grave again, now noticing another set of writing, a battle song engraved beside the dragon. He still did not know who Boromir had been, if he had a family somewhere in the world, but the brave warrior had died so Fili and Kili might live, and Thorin would always recognize the blood-debt that this deed put on his line. He did not know if he’d ever find Boromir’s people but if he did, he would honor the man’s sacrifice.

 

When the others were leaving Thorin waited. “Dwalin, please stay,” he said softly. There was one more thing to do, and one that bore no sharing. The bald warrior understood wordlessly, and followed Thorin as they left this crypt for the old royal crypts. Thorin carried the simple stone urn that held Daroin’s ashes, he had contemplated burying Balin and Daroin together, as brothers, but he felt they would disapprove and Daroin deserved to rest where he should have, had he died before King Thrór’s reign had come to an end. When he placed the urn in one of the niches in the outer wall of the royal crypt, Thorin felt it was time to speak.

 

“Dwalin,” his voice was still rough, that damn cut to his throat healing too slowly. “’tis is a bad time to speak of this, but it is the only time. I feel your brothers’ spirits are still with us here.” Ignoring the pain in his rms, he reached up to clasp Dwalin’s broad shoulders. “As long as I am King under the Mountain, there will be no Royal Guard to protect me, for there is only one warrior I would entrust my life to like that and I will need you as my warmaster in many years to come.” Thorin looked at Dwalin’s dark eyes, wondering if his friend would ever heal from the losses he had suffered. “And I do not wish you to follow me into death, like it was done for the Kings of Old. I have seen enough warriors die for me already to add any more. I have seen enough friends die.” It was a gross breaching of tradition, of a custom harkening back to Azaghâl of Belegost, but it was a tradition Thorin could hardly bear to see continued. “When my time comes, my friend,” he went on. “I want you to live, to go on, to not give up… and maybe keep an eye on Kili.”

 

“Always,” Dwalin’s voice was rough with emotions, with many things he could not say, his heart was too full. “I promise Thorin, I will be there to protect Kili. But…” a glint, a small spark rose in his eyes. “Until then, I will take great pleasure in denying fate your untimely departure.”

 

ADL

 

Hagil stood alone inside the silent crypts. He knew he should have left with the others, but there was something he still needed to do. The old mercenary walked slowly, with a limp, his leg still aching from the axe wound. In his hand he held the old leather band with the golden clasp. He had worn this ornament for so many years; it had become part of him. Long years ago, when he had been still young, too young a mercenary, he had agreed to take on a job from a comrade who owed a wizard a favor and did not feel up to the task bidden of him.

 

It had been a crazy decision, one only a youth could make in full trust of his strength and skill. The adventure had led to pain, trouble, an exasperated wizard and… Kadan. Old, grim Kadan. A dwarf found in a dark place, his mind wracked with madness, hardly remembering who he was. Hagil had rescued him but Kadan had refused to return to his people, too deeply shamed over his own downfall he had never told Hagil his true name or where he had come from. His constant company had gained Hagil the reputation of being that mercenary with the mad dwarf in tow but he had not cared. For those twelve years Kadan had been his friend, comrade and a fierce fighter to have his back. When Kadan had died, at the dawn of spring, he had asked Hagil to keep that clasp and to bury his body in the shadow of the mountain.

 

Hagil had fulfilled both wishes, burying Kadan where he could see the Mountain from afar, and always keeping the clasp. For more than thirty years he had worn it around his neck, in memory of a long dead friend. Now, he studied the faded markings on the gold, comparing it to the various tombs in the deeps until he finally found the same seal inside a large chamber. It was a magnificent crypt, one that would even put those pretentious cairns in Gondor to shame, because here it was not the splendor but the craftsmanship and sheer beauty of the work that made this place unique. The symbol on the clasp repeated on the tombs before him.

 

He stepped closer and found that one of the marble figures depicting the dead dwarf in this tomb had just enough of an open hand for the clasp to fit inside. Carefully he rolled the leather band up around it and put the clasp into the stone hand. It was not much, but in a way Kadan would rest with his ancestors.

 

ADL

 

“So you truly are set on leaving?” Fili asked, standing beside Fion outside the mountain. A cool grey autumn day had risen in the skies and the wind blew sharply from the north. “It is sad, I just found out I had a cousin…”

 

Fion turned to him. “Fili, you have a family, a brother and an Uncle who adores you. And if you ever need my help – send one of your Ravens. I will come.” It was as much of a promise as he could make. While Fion would have liked to get to know Fili better, he knew it was better they were gone soon. There was already unrest among the woodland elves because of Rú and they might easily start another war over that.

“The gates of the mountain will always be open to you, both of you.” Fili said warmly, knowing that Fion’s choice was not so dissimilar from the choice Dari had made. The two dwarves clasped hands in goodbye and then Fion turned quickly, briskly walking towards the figure of the lone elf waiting for him a few paces away.

 

Legolas had not wished to intrude on any proceedings, and thus kept his distance. He had shuddered to see the infamous Noldorin Prince here, but knew better than to speak out. With his father still recuperating from his injuries this was hardly the time for old grudges to be revisited. Maybe it was better this Noldor left quietly, instead of remaining in the proximity of Mirkwood.

 

“Prince Legolas,” Fili approached him, the dwarf’s demeanor shifting from friendly to somewhat guarded. “What has brought you here?”

 

“Prince Fili,” Legolas greeted him politely. “I did wish to speak with Lachanar, our army will march before nightfall and…”

 

Fili’s eyes narrowed. “I think King Thorin already told you, you can’t have him, not for your perceived oathbreaking and certainly not for execution.”

 

“Many things were said in haste, when we last met,” Legolas replied diplomatically. “And I do not wish him handed over but to speak to him.”

 

“Wait here,” Fili said, leaving for the Mountain gates. He did not invite the Woodelf into the fortress, and for good reason.

 

It was not long after that Lachanar came outside, walking in a brisk stride, it was clear he had hurried. “Prince Fili said that you wished to see me.” He said, politely but speaking with a clear detachment.

 

Legolas heard it, the distance in Lachanar’s voice. “Many things happened, Lachanar,” he said. “And some of them were regretful. My father… my father understands that he put you into an impossible situation when he ordered you to kill Thorin. He is willing to overlook all that happened and invites you to return home with us.” He tried to word it well, balancing the grace of forgiving a broken oath with the understanding for the situation it had happened in.

 

Their eyes met and Legolas perceived barely restrained temper in the eyes of the former Captain-General. “I’d rather he were not to overlook my actions that day,” Lachanar said. “If there is anything I would be proud of in the last hundred years it was that I finally found the spine to stand by my friend. I have no wish to go back, in grace or disgrace, I am no longer of Mirkwood and I doubt I will be ever again.”

 

“But where will you go?” Legolas asked. “Live among dwarves? Beg for admission into another Elven Kingdom? Sail west?”

 

At the last Lachanar laughed. “Most certainly not, I will go back to the undying lands the day an Orc arrow sends me straight to Mandos. The shadow may have fled Dol Guldur but it was not destroyed, we still have a world to defend and battles to fight.”

 

Legolas’ eyes went to the two figures he could see heading west, one a blond dwarf and one a red-haired elf. “Among comrades such as this?” he asked.

 

“With anyone willing to stand and oppose the shadow.” Lachanar’s stern mien softened a little. “Legolas,” he said, for the moment letting go of his temper. “A storm is coming, one like we have not seen in thousands of years. What that Easterling said was true, when he returns it will be with an army, and we have to be ready.”

 

Legolas could not reply to that, he had seen too much in the last weeks to discuss more war and bloodshed anytime soon. He turned and left, to return to his father. It was time for them to go home.

 

ADL

 

“We need to send a messenger to the Ered Luin before the winter comes,” Thorin was seated in a small hall in the mountain, with his friends. “The sooner they know, the better they can prepare for their journey here.”

 

“I would like to go,” Kili said. “I… I need to go. I don’t think I could sit still all winter.”

 

Thorin silently agreed, it would be best to send someone from the Royal House to bring the message and Kili was fully healed and able to travel.

 

“I’ll go with you,” Dwalin had spoken up. “With all the Orcs running scared it will be a restless winter on this side of the mountains.”

 

“And it would give them someone to organize the venture,” Thorin replied, understanding that Dwalin needed the task. And it would do him good to travel with Kili, maybe it would be easier on him.

 

“Do you think you could take a burglar with you?” Bilbo spoke up.

 

“You are already planning on leaving?” Thorin asked, he had had the impression Bilbo liked Erebor.

 

“I would like to stay, Thorin,” Bilbo explained. “But… I left in rather a hurry and there are some things I better take care of. Otherwise I may come back and find that the Sackville-Bagginses got out of Hardbottle. There are a few family matters I left unattended as well.”

 

Thorin understood, their arrival with Gandalf in the previous spring had been rather sudden and certainly created chaos in the life of their Hobbit. “I still hope you will be back for the coronation.” He rumbled.

 

“I will do my best, Thorin,” Bilbo promised. “Which is why I wanted to travel with Kili and Dwalin right away.”

 

“It would be great to have you with us, Bilbo,” Kili said. “We’d be lost without our burglar.” He added with a wink.

 

“Gracious me!” Bilbo laughed. “Prince or no you are incorrigible.”

 

“Then it is decided,” Thorin said. “Kili, Dwalin and Bilbo will ride back to the Ered Luin in the morning and bring our people home.”

 

ADL

 

Nightfall found Kili alone in the crypt by Boromir’s tomb. The last time he had been standing here, the pain had been so heavy in his chest; he had hardly been able to breathe. The pain was still there, but more subdued. He knew Boromir had not wanted him to mourn, he had felt his friend’s honest elation only moments before the warrior had slipped into the darkness, and he did his best to respect this wish. He bowed his head, dark hair falling forward to hide his face, he would not mourn and he would not cry, he had been surprised he had even been able to joke with Bilbo earlier and he knew it was what Boromir would have wanted. He would honor his memory by living, by not breaking and he’d fight hard to prove he had been worth such sacrifice.

 

 

_None of us will ever know_

_What lies around that bend_

_All the world becomes your home_

_On the road that never ends._

_(Blackmore’s Night: Journeyman)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all come to hit me, because I said in some PMs that there would be many chapters here still - this journey is far from over, this is simple the end of Raven’s Blade II: Durin’s Bane, which was Boromir’s journey to break the ancient curse. This journey is ended now but the journey of Kili and his friends is far from over, there are Dain, Dale, Elves and Sackville Bagginses down the road still. I will pick up again with Raven’s Blade III: The Twilight Years in a few days hopefully, and I want to THANK all of you who encouraged me to go on, who speculated and asked questions. You all are awesome.
> 
> When I originally started this story, I was sure I would end it, with a short glimpse on the coming ring war, by now I know there is more to say of what happened between now and the great war… so I will tell that story. I am aware many of you will miss Boromir, who will not be born or around for quite a while. And I can answer you with a quote 
> 
> “I really don’t mind what happens between now and then  
> As long as you are my friend at the end.”
> 
> While I too will miss Boromir when writing on, Kili will meet him again… just some odd decades down the road. 
> 
> Very special thanks to Harrylee94, who keeps working with me and is amazing keeping up with my crazed writing speed. Without her this story would not exist. And she writes amazing stories as well… so check out her profile!
> 
> At this point I can only ask you to give me a day or two to get the sequel started and encourage you to share questions, requests and speculations!
> 
> A BIG THANK YOU TO ALL OF YOU

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using characters from the Hobbit/Lord of the Rings world, which is trademarked by J.R.R. Tolkien.Both Boromir and Kili are characters created and owned by Tolkien INC, and I do not claim any ownership over them or the world of Middle Earth. The story I tell here about Boromir and Kili is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.R.R. Tolkien's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official story line. I am grateful to J.R.R. Tolkien for his wonderful stories about Middle Earth, for without his books, my story would not exist.


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